


Ikizukuri

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will wakes up, he is even more determined to bring about his reckoning, but finds himself locked out of the investigation into Hannibal's disappearance. He finds an unlikely ally in Frederick Chilton, and the pair reluctantly work together in a chase that will send them across continents in the search for justice.</p>
<p>Post season two finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely should not be starting another fic while I am still in the middle of working on my Caged series. Especially not when I am recovering from an operation on my hand that is making it very difficult to type. I am trying to deny that the season two finale ever happened, but this story idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I see this as being a slow-burn, with the primary relationship being between Chilton and Will, although it will definitely have some elements of Hannigram.
> 
> My work isn't proof-read. Thank you very much for having a look at this and I do hope you enjoy it.

There is a man in a brown suit at the end of the bed when Will Graham wakes up for the first time.

 

For a moment he panics, heart rate rocketing, gasping in the oxygen that is coming in through a plastic mask strapped to his face. He is too weak, too sore, to move, and that scares him even more.

 

The man is not Hannibal Lecter, though; Will realises from the shorter, slimmer frame of the man, and the way he leans heavily on a cane, that this is Frederick Chilton.

 

Will doesn't understand why he is here.

 

Chilton is talking to a nurse, but they both turn when they hear the sudden increase in Will's heart rate on the machines he is hooked up to.

 

Chilton's face blurs, and Will loses consciousness again.

 

* * *

 

Frederick Chilton is reading a book to Will. He hasn't noticed that Will's eyes are open, staring at him. He is wearing a navy blue suit now, sitting down in a chair beside the bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

 

Will doesn't understand what he is reading. The words are an oddly soothing monotone, but they mean nothing.

 

How long has he been here? How long has Chilton been with him?

 

He fights the urge to drift back off into blessed unconsciousness. Memories are clouded and vague, shrouded in grey in his mind, but he fights through them.

 

“Abigail?” he chokes out eventually, and the word is muffled and useless against the oxygen mask.

 

Chilton looks up suddenly, surprised. He closes the book and reaches across to help Will remove the oxygen mask. A tear escapes from Will's eye and splashes against Chilton's fingers and Chilton pauses, flushing suddenly.

 

They don't know each other well enough to share this moment, but who else do they have? Will feels sick as he ponders this.

 

“Abigail?” he repeats again, and his throat hurts as he speaks.

 

Chilton covers Will's hand with his own but Will snatches it away. He doesn't want to be touched, not by anyone, not ever again. The look in Chilton's eyes tells him that Abigail is dead. He remembers covering her opened throat, her blood covering him as they lay dying on the floor together.

 

Another tear breaks free and Chilton watches it without moving.

 

“I'm sorry,” Chilton says finally, in a quiet voice.

 

There is a question in Will's eyes, but he can't choke it out. Chilton looks at him through his glasses.

 

“She died before help arrived. There was nothing anyone could do.” He chews his lip. “I'm sorry,” he repeats uselessly.

 

Will closes his eyes. He had come to terms with Abigail's death, accepted it. It seems impossible to do the same again. _We are her fathers now._ He feels sick and wonders for a moment if he is going to vomit.

 

He reaches for the mask, covers his face with it and takes a deep breath before removing it and asking, “Alana? Jack?”

 

“Alana Bloom is alive, but she is... she won't walk again,” Chilton says. “Jack is alive.”

 

Will nods, digesting this information.

 

He thinks back to the moment when Hannibal gutted him, then held him close. Will can't believe that he lived through it.

 

He doesn't want to be alive.

 

Another tear rolls down his face. He is too weak to give into the desire to properly cry; he wonders how Chilton would react if he broke down.

 

“How long have I been here?” he asks eventually, struggling to catch his breath after such a long utterance.

 

“Eight days,” Chilton replies.

 

“Hannibal will have... a tan by now,” Will gasps, and voicing Hannibal's name feels like being stabbed all over again. He is too exhausted to properly feel anger, but he knows it is inside him, built up and ready to be released.

 

Chilton nods. “It looks like he has left the country.”

 

Will closes his eyes again, blocking out Chilton's earnest face. He is again in Hannibal's arms, clutching onto the shoulders of a man he had come to love, in the darkest and most horrible sense. Hannibal is murmuring words into his ear, and he lowers him gently to the floor before reaching for Abigail.

 

He was supposed to leave.

 

Will speaks, and he thinks it startles Chilton, who must think he has drifted back into unconsciousness. “How long have you been here?”

 

An uncomfortable pause. “Seven days.”

 

So Chilton has been here almost the entire time. The discovery of the scene at Hannibal's house would have caused him to be released, then he must have come almost straight here.

 

Will wants to ask him why. He looks at him closely. It has been so long since he saw Chilton last, so long since Chilton had turned up at his house of all places. He looks older, shadowed around the eyes. The scar on his face is almost perfectly round, not too hideous really, but a telling reminder of what Hannibal has done to him.

 

This is why Chilton is here.

 

Their lives have both been ruined by Hannibal. Chilton trusts Will- that is why he came to Will's house for help. Will suspects that Chilton trusts even fewer people than Will himself.

 

They have both been the Chesapeake Ripper, and they have both been toyed with by him.

 

Will doesn't know if he is glad that Chilton is here or not. He looks at the book lying closed on Chilton's lap.

 

“What are you reading me?” he asks.

 

Chilton winces slightly. “ Strangers to Ourselves: Discovering the Adaptive Unconscious by Timothy D. Wilson.”

 

Will almost smiles.

 

Chilton blushes a little- Will can't remember ever seeing him blush before, and it's strangely endearing- and he puts the book to one side. “I needed to make sure you were going to be fine.”

 

Will takes a deep breath of oxygen. “It seems that I am, although I haven't seen a doctor yet,” he says, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

 

“Oh! Oh, sorry.” Chilton stands up and grabs his cane, hobbling to the door of the bright white hospital room. Will hears him calling out for a doctor.

 

He returns with a doctor who is wearing a fake smile. “Mr Graham, good to see that you're awake,” the doctor says brightly. “My name is Dr Goschen, and I've been looking after you.”

 

“What's the damage?” Will asks, his eyes subconsciously flickering over to Chilton's cane. He doesn't want that. He needs to be physically able to carry out the reckoning he promised, the reckoning which is now even more deserved.

 

“You lost a lot of blood, but luckily there was no major organ trauma. You'll be weak for a while, but I'm confident that you'll make a full recovery.”

 

“Good. How long until I can get out of here?”

 

“A few days longer, Mr Graham.”

 

Will sighs- he needs to leave as soon as possible, but he supposes there is not a lot he can do about it. He nods and Dr Goschen leaves.

 

Chilton sits back down, and Will breathes in his aftershave. It is not unpleasant but it is expensive, the sort of thing Hannibal would have liked. His stomach turns at the thought. Chilton makes eye contact and looks away suddenly, as if it is he, and not Will, who dislikes it.

 

“I hope you don't mind me being here,” Chilton says.

 

Will's instinct is to make a cutting remark, because he doesn't really know Chilton, because he sure as hell doesn't trust him and because he doesn't even like him. He remembers Chilton when he was his captor, of sorts, and for a moment he really wants to hurt him. But he doesn't, because the mark on Chilton's ruined cheek reminds him that they are bonded in this, and for some crazy reason, Chilton trusts him. “No,” is all he says.

 

Chilton gives a half-smile, and Will idly wonders how easy it would be to crush this man. The cruelty of the thought surprises him, and it tastes like Hannibal. Will frowns at himself.

 

Chilton notices the frown, and his smile fades. “Will,” he says tentatively, and Will can tell he is still unused to the way the name feels in his mouth, weighing his tongue around it.

 

He looks tired. Will forces a smile, the empty one he wears most often. “Go home,” he says. “Get some rest. I'll still be here in the morning.”

 

Chilton suddenly looks right into Will's eyes, and Will is uncomfortable. Chilton's eyes are a strange, opaque blue-green. They are bright and intense.

 

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” Chilton asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

Chilton nods and stands up. He hesitates, then removes an expensive-looking pen from his pocket and jots something down on the blank pad of paper by the bed. As he leans over to do so, Will again breathes in his aftershave, and this time it doesn't seem too bad.

 

“The number of the hotel I'm staying at,” he says awkwardly, gesturing towards the numbers he has written down. “If you need me.”

 

Will knows he has a rough night ahead, a night of lying awake thinking about Hannibal and Abigail. A night of remembering Hannibal's hand on his face, Hannibal's disappointed eyes, Hannibal's breath on his throat. A night of remembering those brief few seconds in which Abigail was alive.

 

Will knows he won't call Chilton, but he nods.

 

“Goodnight,” Chilton says.

 

“Goodnight,” Will replies.


	2. Friendship

It's raining when Will wakes up. He can hear it thrumming against the window, a soothing constant, but he doesn't feel relaxed.

 

He has been dreaming. He is hot and covered in sweat, the thin hospital gown sticking to his soaking skin. He has tried to push away the covers in his sleep, but his legs are tangled up in them.

 

The dream was about Hannibal. _He stabs me and kisses me, smearing my blood on my face with his fingers._

 

Just a dream. Will is shaking, panting.

 

He is broken.

 

By the time he has finished crying, the sun is bright through the hospital window. Will can hear voices in the corridor outside his room. Life is beginning again.

 

A nurse comes in with some cereal and a cup of coffee, but Will has never felt less like eating. He sips the coffee and asks if he can have a shower. She fetches a wheelchair and Will is surprised to find that he needs it; even climbing out of bed is excruciating, the stitches in his torso stretching with every movement.

 

He sits on a plastic bench in the small shower cubicle and washes himself with the chemical-scented shower gel. He lets the lukewarm water fall on his face, and he closes his eyes and imagines that he is outside in the rain. He tries not to look down at his own body, the ruined area covered by waterproof dressing.

 

Back in bed, the nurse gives him some water and a small paper cup of pills to take. He asks for a newspaper but she hesitates and leaves him without giving him one.

 

He is bored- beyond bored- by the time Frederick Chilton arrives.

 

Chilton is wearing a hideously ugly suit today, this one green with a checked jacket. Will wants to point this out to Chilton, and again he is shocked at the cruelty he can sense lurking beneath his own surface.

 

Chilton smiles at Will tentatively. He walks in, his cane banging loudly. There is a newspaper tucked beneath his arm and he is carrying a punnet of grapes.

 

“You've brought me grapes?” Will asks dryly.

 

Chilton places them down on the table beside Will. “Er- yes. I was led to believe that grapes are the normal gift when your friend is in hospital.”

 

“We are not friends,” Will says.

 

Chilton raises an eyebrow, looks around the room. “I can see so many other people here visiting you. You're quite right, you don't need my friendship.”

 

“Somebody is feeling sarcastic,” Will observes.

 

“There's that famous empathy.”

 

Will smiles. He is glad Chilton is feeling less awkward this morning. It is nice to have a sparring partner. It was one of the things he enjoyed most about Hannibal, having somebody to challenge and by challenged by.

 

“Are my dogs okay?” he asks. This is very important, and he feels guilty that he didn't ask this yesterday.

 

“They're fine.” Chilton sits down, hands on the tip of his cane between his legs. He sets the newspaper down beside him.

 

“Who is looking after them? Presumably Alana is still in the hospital and she usually-”  
  


Chilton raises a hand to stop him. “Did you look at the number I wrote down yesterday?”

 

Will shakes his head. He's not even sure where the piece of paper has gone; a quick look around reveals that it is lying on the floor. He must have knocked it off during his nightmare. Chilton follows his gaze and picks it up, handing it to Will.

 

“This is- this is _my_ phone number,” Will says, not understanding.

 

“Yes.”

 

Will looks at Chilton's face. Those big eyes are staring back at him. “You're staying at my house? Who told you that you-?”

 

“Nobody did. Nobody said I couldn't, though.”

 

“Generally speaking, you can't just go and live in somebody's house, Frederick!”

 

Chilton blinks. “They said I could go back to my house. I didn't- after everything that happened, I didn't want to. So I just thought... you're in hospital, Jack Crawford's in hospital, Alana Bloom's in hospital... it just seemed to make sense. I am looking after your dogs.”

 

Will shakes his head in disbelief. “Anyone would think you were obsessed with me, Doctor Chilton.”

 

“Freddie Lounds certainly thinks that is the case,” Chilton says sniffily. “You should see the articles she's written about me.”

 

Will doesn't know what to say. The whole thing is ludicrous, but he feels like he can't tell Chilton to leave his house. He sighs. “Can I borrow your newspaper?”

 

Chilton glances at the newspaper, clicks his tongue. He pauses before answering. “Actually, I'm not sure-”

 

“ _Frederick_ ,” Will says firmly.

 

Chilton makes a huffy sound but passes Will the newspaper. Will unfolds it and sees Hannibal's face staring up at him. He shudders involuntarily. _Search For Cannibal Killer In Second Week._ He frowns. His own face is in the corner of the page; it is the unflattering shot from his ID badge.

 

“They haven't found him, then,” Will says.

 

“No. He must have gone abroad, as you said,” Chilton replies.

 

Will nods. He can't tear his eyes away from Hannibal's face. It is a good photograph, and Will wonders where it is from; Hannibal is smiling, a rare grin that brightens his face.

 

Will misses him, and that makes him feel sick.

 

This is the man who killed Abigail, and Will is going to kill him. It doesn't matter where he runs to.

 

“Do they know where he's gone?” Will asks, trying to keep his tone light.

 

Chilton chooses this moment to start being a decent psychiatrist. He frowns, leans towards Will. “Will, you can't do anything else. Move on with your life.”

 

Will looks at Chilton. Chilton is marked by Hannibal, too, a glossy patch of pink scar tissue on his cheek. Will fights the urge to dig his thumb into the mark, to make Chilton remember. He forces himself to maintain eye contact. “I don't have a life. Hannibal saw to it that everything- _everything_ \- I had in my life was _him_ , and now he's gone and I'm a shell.”

 

Chilton frowns but doesn't reply.

 

“You're the same,” Will continues. “It's not quite the same for you, but he's left you with nothing. That's why you're here, with me.”

 

“We need to move on,” Chilton says quietly.

 

Will shakes his head. “You can, if you want. There's nothing for me to move on to.”

 

The words echo in his head later on when he visits Alana. Chilton has gone back to feed the dogs, a situation so bizarre that Will can hardly comprehend it. He is alone when he goes in to see her, sitting in his wheelchair.

 

She is sitting in a wheelchair, too, her back to Will. The difference is that Will is going to get better. Alana is not. She will never walk again. She will always be confined to this wheelchair.

 

Her hair, usually glossy curls flowing down her back, is bundled up in a knot at the base of her neck. She half-turns her head, and he can't make out her shadowy profile.

 

“Will,” she says quietly.

 

He stops quite far from her, sensing that she does not want to be approached. They are strangers. If Will closes his eyes, he can remember the taste of her mouth from so long ago, but they were different people then. A different woman and a different man, untainted by Hannibal Lecter.

 

“Remember when we had never been alone in a room together?” Alana asks.

 

“All I wanted was to be alone in a room with you,” Will replies.

 

Alana laughs humourlessly. He can hear her breathing. It is laboured and painful.

 

She is another person that Will is going to get revenge for. He wants to tell her this, but something stops him.

 

“It was Abigail,” Alana says. “Abigail pushed me.”

 

The knowledge is painful but not surprising. Will's throat tightens, and he feels tears burning his eyes. _Poor Abigail_. It was impossible to know how much Abigail had been manipulated by Hannibal.

 

Will wants to apologise on behalf of Abigail. _We are her fathers now_. He let her down. He has let Alana down.

 

“I should have listened to you,” Alana says. Will can make out the silvery trail of a tear rolling down the edge of her face.

 

“It isn't your fault. He manipulated us all,” Will replies. He means it, but the words are somehow hollow. Not enough.

 

Alana nods. She turns away. “Thank you for coming to visit me, Will.”

 

He is dismissed. He wants to go to her, squeeze her shoulder, kiss her face, but the time for those things has gone.


	3. Strays

Jack Crawford comes to visit Will the following morning.

 

Will is bored and agitated, and when he sees that Jack is ready to leave the hospital, that just annoys him even further. Jack looks exhausted, and there is a bright white dressing at his throat.

 

“How are you feeling?” Jack asks, not sitting down.

 

Will's face twitches automatically, the empty smile curving his lips. “I've been better.”

 

“Haven't we all?” Jack says mournfully. “I'm sorry about Abigail, Will.”

 

“You don't think I knew about her?” Will challenges.

 

Jack hesitates. He sighs, frowns a little and finally sits down. Will watches him closely. Jack has gone from being a friend to an enemy, and then he changed into something else entirely when Will was released and they started to work together to hunt Hannibal. Jack hasn't trusted Will fully in a long time. Will knows he doesn't really deserve to be trusted, not where Hannibal is concerned.

 

“Did you?” Jack asks.

 

“No,” Will says. “I would have done anything for her.”

 

“Even at Hannibal Lecter's expense?”

 

Will remembers sobbing as Hannibal slashed Abigail's throat. “Especially at Hannibal Lecter's expense.”

 

Jack nods. Will can see that Jack believes him, but doesn't understand him.

 

“Were you working with me, or with Hannibal?” Jack asks.

 

“Both. Neither.” Will closes his eyes. Suddenly he is exhausted. _We couldn't leave without you._ A tear escapes, and he reaches up to brush it away. “I wanted him stopped, Jack, you know that.”

 

“I know. But I think it's best for us both that you are no longer involved in the Hannibal Lecter case,” Jack says.

 

Will stares at him. He  _has_ to catch Hannibal Lecter. It is all that is left. “Jack-” he begins, panicking.

 

“Will, please. You've given more than enough to this. More than I should have let you give.” Jack stands up, sighs.

 

“You have to let me catch him,” Will begs.

 

Jack looks sad. “I am saying this as your friend, Will. Get your life back together.”

 

“You're not my friend,” Will says automatically.

 

“I was once. I'd like to be again.” Jack nods. “Goodbye, Will.”

 

He leaves Will to the silence of the room. Will takes a deep breath. He can't believe that he is not going to be allowed to pursue Hannibal. There is nothing else left in his life. He wishes for the first time that Hannibal had killed him; there are tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

 

He has never felt so alone. The deaths and disappointments of his life surround him. He cries into his pillow as he thinks of Abigail. He let her down twice. He wonders how Hannibal managed to manipulate her, and he clutches the pillow until his fingers are numb.

 

Alana is lost to him now, too; another victim of Hannibal's manipulations. He should have been able to save her.

 

Margot Verger's child has been taken from him. Beverly Katz was taken from him.

 

His sanity was taken from him.

 

Hannibal is lost to him.

 

It takes a long time for him to stop crying. When he does, he realises that he is not alone, after all.

 

Frederick Chilton is standing awkwardly in the doorway.

 

Will stares at him, and for a long moment they make eye contact. Chilton looks utterly bemused, his eyes wide and confused. His suit today is navy. His beard is growing in and starting to thicken out.

 

“How long have you been standing there?” Will demands finally, looking away.

 

Chilton takes it as an invitation to enter. He sits down without answering, examining his cane closely. Will can hear him tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I arrived just before Jack Crawford left.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Will says, because there is nothing else to say, and he feels his cheeks burning. He continues staring at everything that isn't Chilton's face.

 

“I didn't know if you would want me to say anything, or...” Chilton trails off uselessly.

 

“You are the worst damn psychiatrist in the world,” Will snaps, lashing out.

 

“I think that, at this stage, that's almost an inarguable fact,” Chilton says, surprising Will.

 

Will looks back at him, and he can see tears glittering in Chilton's eyes. He has the most absurd urge to comfort him, but he stops himself.

 

“I've got nothing left, either,” Chilton says softly, and Will wonders if Chilton is actually the _best_ damn psychiatrist in the world. “No friends, nobody even likes me. At least Jack is trying to do what he thinks is best for you.”

 

Will feels like he should tell Chilton that he does like him, but it wouldn't be true, so he says nothing. There is a strange bond forming between them. Hannibal's two broken victims.

 

Will remembers Chilton turning up at his house covered in blood. He wants to ask why Chilton chose to come to him, but he doesn't.

 

“I want to go home,” Will says.

 

Chilton frowns, then nods. To Will's great surprise, he stands up and leaves the room. Will isn't sure where he's going. Maybe he has decided that he's had quite enough of Will Graham for one lifetime.

 

When Chilton comes back, Will has washed his face awkwardly with water from his water jug. Chilton is holding a clear plastic bag filled with blister packs of pills. He looks pleased with himself.

 

“You're discharged,” he says simply.

 

“You- you went to sort that out for me?” Will asks.

 

Chilton nods, and he is wearing the beginnings of a smug smile.

 

“We're not friends,” Will says, and he wonders if he is asking a question or stating a fact.

 

Chilton shrugs, but the smile doesn't fade. He opens a cupboard and produces a plastic bag which he hands to Will. Inside is a pair of clean jeans and a plaid shirt. Will fingers them happily before glancing up.

 

“I brought them here the third day you were in,” Chilton says. “Just in case.”

 

“Stop looking so self-satisfied,” Will says grumpily.

 

He makes Chilton stand outside while he gets dressed. He avoids looking at his torso once again, but his fingers brush the stitches and he hisses in pain. The doctor comes in just as he is finishing buttoning the shirt. Chilton meets Will's eyes over the doctor's shoulder and smiles.

 

“I'm not sure you're ready to be discharged,” the doctor says, “however your friend here is insistent.”

 

Chilton's eyes positively  _glitter_ when the doctor calls him Will's friend, the bastard.

 

“You need to stay off your feet, drink plenty of fluids and avoid getting the wound wet,” the doctor says.

 

Will nods.

 

“Doctor Chilton has told me that he is staying with you, so you need to make sure that he looks after you.”

 

Will raises an eyebrow at Chilton.

 

Gettting to Chilton's car is awkward; Will has overestimated how well he can walk. He stumbles along beside Chilton, who wisely does not comment. When Will climbs into the car, he is panting. The car stinks of Chilton's aftershave.

 

“Remember to write down your check-up appointment time when you get home,” Chilton says.

 

Will glares at him as he starts the car.

 

“I've died, haven't I?” Will says. “I died in Hannibal Lecter's kitchen and this is hell.”

 

Chilton glances at him. “I'm not going to dignify that comment with a response, Will.”

 

Will almost smiles. They pass the rest of the car journey in blessed silence. Will's torso hurts, but his mind is thankfully empty and quiet. He can dwell on his self-pity later. For now, he is content to listen to the hum of the engine.

 

His dogs rush out of the door when they pull up, and he feels the first real happiness since he woke up. His face almost hurts from smiling so broadly as he staggers out of the car and over to them, dropping awkwardly to one knee and feeling warm fur and soft tongues against his skin.

 

“Thank you for looking after them,” Will says, looking at Chilton, still smiling.

 

Chilton shrugs. “Since it appears I am to join your collection of strays, it made sense.”


	4. Selfishness

Eight hours into their cohabitation, Will is ready to murder Chilton. He even threatens him with it at one point ( _“I have worn the minds of many serial killers, Frederick- it is not going to take an awful lot for me to snap and brutally murder you!”_ ) but Chilton, bizarrely, doesn't seem afraid of Will.

 

Perhaps it is because Will is stuck, useless, on the sofa for the vast majority of the time.

 

Chilton fusses over him and fetches him cups of tea in the first hour.

 

In the second hour, Will discovers that Chilton has _moved into_ Will's bedroom. The whole place stinks of aftershave and Chilton's suits are hanging up on the curtain pole.

 

In the third hour, Will goes to sleep in his bed and is woken up by the sound of Chilton  _singing_ to the dogs _._

 

Will does manage to get some sleep during hours four, five and six but wakes up when Chilton presents him with a huge plate of pasta that Will can't stomach eating.

 

Will scours the newspapers from the past week in hour seven, filling his mind with Hannibal. He makes careful notes. Chilton watches him with a worried, judgemental frown.

 

“You are driving me _insane_ ,” Will says, glaring at him.

 

“Hardly ideal behaviour for a psychiatrist,” Chilton observes dryly.

 

“I am not your patient. I am not _anybody's_ patient,” Will snaps.

 

Will thinks about Hannibal. Being Hannibal's patient- not that he ever officially was- had been exhausting and horrifying, but it had been exhilarating and strangely comforting. As he descended into darkness, it had been nice to have somebody to share it with.

 

He should be dragging his way out of the darkness now, but he has no intention of doing so.

 

Chilton hesitates. Will realises that he has changed into pyjamas. In fact, as Will stares at him, he realises that Chilton looks quite different out of his suits. In a snug black t-shirt and soft grey pyjama bottoms, he looks almost human.

 

Will wants to laugh at him, but he bites his lip.

 

Chilton blushes. “Stop looking at me like that,” he says.

 

Will wonders what Chilton thought he could see in Will's expression, and the thought makes the laughter burst out of him.

 

Chilton scowls at him, and fetches some whisky. They drink it in silence for a few minutes.

 

“This is the first not-annoying thing you've done,” Will says, and he is smiling at Chilton.

 

“Why did you call Jack?” Chilton asks, and the question surprises Will. The smile dies on his face.

 

Will frowns. He tries to think back. Everything in his head is _Hannibal_ and sometimes it is impossible to locate his own memories and ideas. “I thought it was for the best,” Will says eventually. “You couldn't survive running, and it would have made you look guilty.”

 

“I nearly died because of you.”

 

Will looks at the scar on Chilton's face and, without thinking about it, reaches out to brush it with his finger. Chilton shudders before Will makes contact with his face, and his eyes are wide when they meet Will's. Will stops short of actually touching the scar.

 

“I'm sorry,” Will says, moving back.

 

“I trusted you,” Chilton replies.

 

“My track record suggests that trusting me is not the wisest move a person can make, Frederick. I was under your care for long enough. I'm not the Chesapeake Ripper but I'm dangerous. You are a good enough psychiatrist to pick up on that.”

 

Chilton frowns. “True.” He sips his whisky.

 

“I'm still sorry,” Will says, and he means it. “You can go, if you want. I don't need you to stay with me.”

 

“You _do_ need me to stay with you.” Chilton has stiffened, glaring at Will. “And, as I told you before, I want to stay here.”

 

“That was obvious in the way you moved into my house without permission while I was in hospital,” Will replies sardonically. “I meant that if you didn't want to stay with me, I would understand.”

 

Chilton hesitates. He leans his face on his hand, regards Will for a long moment. His eyes are cloudy. “I think we should stick together,” he says.

 

“Why?” Will is confused. Why would anyone want to stick with him? He thinks about it, then laughs humourlessly. “If you're worried that Hannibal is going to come back, don't be- he's gone. And even if he did, I couldn't save you. If I couldn't save Abigail then I can't save anyone.”

 

“You're scared to get inside my head because it looks so much like your own. That's not why. We're alone, Will. That's why we should stick together.”

 

“Your mind is nothing like mine. It's selfish-”

 

“Yours isn't?” Chilton asks delicately.

 

Will thinks about how much he wanted to please Hannibal, especially towards the end. When Hannibal had asked him to leave over dinner, he had been seconds away from agreeing.. He had never wanted anything so much in his life.

 

Will is selfish, but it is in a more complicated way than Frederick Chilton.

 

He is half-daydreaming about the taste of Hannibal's mouth when he nods at Chilton. “Fine,” is all he says.

 

They sit in vaguely uncomfortable silence. Will sips his whisky. He is suddenly exhausted. He wishes he was alone. There are decisions to be made about the future, plans to be decided on. He needs to work out how he is going to track down Hannibal now that he is excluded from the case.

 

Before he knows it, he has finished his drink and goes to stand up without thinking about it, wincing in pain. Chilton tuts at him and fetches the bottle of whisky, refilling both glasses.

 

Will wonders if there is anyone left at the FBI who might help him. Jack definitely won't, and Will knows better than to push him. Beverly might have done if she was still alive. He sighs; he's not going to get any help from there.

 

He's going to need financial support if he's going to set off after Hannibal, and that's ignoring the problem of trying to figure out where he has to go. Will is a poor man. He has a small amount in savings, but it is a pittance really.

 

The second glass of whisky disappears too, and Chilton pours again without comment.

 

“Are you going to let me drink myself to death?” Will asks, back in the present.

 

“We're going to drink ourselves to death together,” Chilton replies, refilling his own glass.

 

Chilton cannot hold his drink as well as Will. His cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes bright. Will smiles and clinks his glass against Chilton's.

 

“A beautiful plan, but you'll pass out before you come anywhere close to permanent damage.”

 

“Excuse me, Mr Graham,” Chilton says, and he is slurring a little.

 

Unsurprisingly, Chilton falls asleep before he has finished the third glass. Will stands up slowly, painfully, and takes the glass into the kitchen. He digs out an old blanket and throws it over Chilton to stop him freezing to death.

 

Chilton is snoring. It is slightly endearing, but Will hopes it can't be heard in his bedroom.

 

In his room, Will takes off his jeans and shirt, and slides into bed in his t-shirt and underwear. His sheets smell of Chilton and he scowls at them in the dark.

 

Sleep is a long time coming for Will. His mind wanders as always to Hannibal.

 

Hannibal made it so that Will had nothing else. He made it so that Will was utterly reliant on him. Whatever his issue, Will would go to Hannibal. As he spun into madness, Hannibal was there to carefully mould and manipulate but also to support.

 

Will had come to live for those gentle touches, those rare smiles. He had wanted more from Hannibal. He had wanted everything from Hannibal.

 

And despite the fact that it went against his very nature, Hannibal had wanted everything from Will. That was why he had planned to give Abigail back to him. Why he had planned to run away with Will.

 

Will thinks back to that dinner, their final supper. Hannibal looking at him across the table, hope sparking his eyes, asking him to leave that night. On reflection, Will knows that Hannibal had already discovered, somehow, that Will had been false, and was still prepared to forgive him.

 

Will had seen heartbreak in Hannibal's eyes as he cupped Will's face before gutting him with the knife. Inexplicably, Will feels guilty. He wants to go to Hannibal, wants to apologise.

 

Leaving Will alive is the most cruel thing Hannibal could have done. At first, Will thinks it was a kindness, a mercy- Hannibal being unable to kill Will because he loves him seems sweet and oddly soothing. However, he quickly realises the horrible truth. Without Hannibal to go to, or talk to, Will is alone.

 

He is cut off, floating alone in a sea of regrets and uncertainties.


	5. A Plan

_Hannibal is wearing a red shirt and a black waistcoat. Will reaches up tentatively and holds Hannibal's face in the same gentle caress he has received so often. He meets Hannibal's gaze and sees his own love and devotion reflected back._

 

“ _I miss you,” he says sadly._

 

_Hannibal doesn't say anything. He bends down and kisses Will, full and hard on the mouth, the way that Will has always dreamed he would. He tastes of mint and wine, his lips firm and fierce as they wrestle Will's open. Will is helpless, his hands tangling in Hannibal's hair, eyes closing. Hannibal trails his tongue along the length of Will's, rudely and aggressively._

 

_He pushes Will, and Will stumbles, falling back onto a bed. He mumbles Hannibal's name uselessly, impotently, into the kiss._

 

_Will is aroused; Hannibal is pinning his wrists, and his mouth goes from Will's lips and trails down Will's throat._

 

“ _Will,” Hannibal says._

 

“Will! Will!”

 

When Will opens his eyes, it is _Chilton_ on top of him, staring down at him. He doesn't understand why Hannibal's face has blended into Chilton's. He is still slow with sleep and arousal. Finding his hands free, he reaches up with one and rubs his thumb over Chilton's scar. He is rougher than he should be.

 

If Chilton gasps and looks confused, Will doesn't notice. He is wondering how he never noticed how _interesting_ Chilton's eyes are. His hair is dishevelled, sticking up, far more appealing than when it is neatly combed with a precise side part.

 

“Will,” Chilton says, and it is a plea.

 

It is not the normal pattern for Will's dreams, but he decides to go with it, and he rolls over, pinning Chilton beneath him; the blanket remains between them, but Will can feel the heat of Chilton's body through it. He reaches down and strokes Chilton's beard; it is softer than he thought it would be, softer than his own is.

 

“Will, _what_ are you doing?” Chilton demands, and his voice is taking on a panicked lilt.

 

Realisation hits Will painfully and he springs up, suddenly unable to put as much space as he would like between them. He is covering his face with his hands, more mortified than he can articulate. He is aware that he is standing in his underwear with a very obvious erection and that Frederick Chilton of all people is now lying in his bed, looking totally horrified.

 

Chilton clears his throat. “There are- there are two guests downstairs. Dangerous-looking guests. They want to see you.”

 

“That doesn't explain why you were on top of me in my bed!” Will snaps, still crimson, still not looking at Chilton. The dangerous-looking guests aren't even an issue in his brain yet.

 

“I called for you from the door, but you wouldn't wake up. You were having, er, a dream.”  
  


“I am aware of that,” Will all but snarls, reaching for his jeans.

 

Chilton says nothing, scrabbling off the bed. He is such a coward. Whoever is downstairs has inspired immense fear in him. Already, he is forgetting Will's hand in his beard, Will trapping him to the bed, and something about that displeases Will immensely. He wants to be memorable.

 

He is not in the greatest of moods as he strides down to see who is here. He wonders if he should grab a weapon but he decides against it. His fingers are just finishing buttoning his shirt when he enters the room and freezes.

 

Strangely, it is not Mason Verger who Will fears when he sees the mutilated man sitting on the couch. Mason is wearing a hideous contraption on the lower half of his face and unsheathed loathing in his eyes. Will wonders if he is thinking about what happened to him- what he did to himself- last time he was here. Perhaps that is why Margot has brought him here.

 

It is Margot Verger that Will fears, sitting beside her brother and giving Will an empty half-smile. She is beautiful, huge eyes and sweet face. What is terrifying is the way that she is looking at Will like nothing happened between them. Like the baby never happened.

 

Will hears Chilton blundering after him but he can only focus on Margot. She certainly doesn't look like she is here to get revenge on Will; after all, they were partners, of a sort, and they are both victims of Hannibal Lecter.

 

“Hello, Margot,” Will says blandly. “Hello, Mason.”

 

“Hello, Will,” Margot says, in her usual smooth, steady tones. There is nothing in her face, her eyes, to suggest that they have ever been anything more than casual acquaintances. “I do apologise for the interruption.”

 

Will has a sudden, vivid flashback of rolling Margot Verger's naked body in his sheets. He frowns at her. “If you're here to get revenge for what happened to your brother-”

 

Margot raises a hand to stop him. “I'm not. I can't speak for Mason, however, but his opinion isn't as important as it used to be.” There is a wicked gleam in her eyes.

 

Mason looks at her, closes his eyes briefly. Will can almost hear him counting inside his head, trying to stay calm. “It would give me indescribable pleasure to carve your face to pieces and feed it to these creatures,” he says eventually, in his usual lilting, nasal tones, gesturing to Will's dogs. “However, my father once said-”

 

“Enough,” Will says. “Please.”

 

Margot smiles slightly. “I- we- have a job for you.”

 

“I have a job,” Will replies, frowning at her.

 

“I heard that you were taken off the Hannibal Lecter case.” Margot leans forward, her clever eyes bright and alive. “I heard about Abigail Hobbs. I know she was important to you.”

 

“The daughter you never had,” Mason interjects. His eyes are smiling now. “The child you _will_ never have.”

 

Something hot and violent flashes through Will's mind and he must move forward unconsciously. Chilton grabs his wrist and says his name very quietly, so that only he can hear it. Will stops.

 

“You must want revenge,” Margot says. “I want revenge. Mason wants revenge. It makes sense for us to work together.”

 

Will nods. Is she offering him a way to find Hannibal?

 

“This is Frederick Chilton, isn't it?” Margot says, glancing at Chilton, who nods.

 

“The other Chesapeake Ripper,” Mason drawls.

 

Margot reaches inside her handbag with elegant fingers and pulls out a photograph. She passes it to Will without comment, and Will frowns as he recognises Hannibal Lecter and Bedelia Du Maurier. They are blurred characters in a busy airport terminal, but there is no mistaking them.

 

“How do you have this information when the FBI doesn't?” Will asks.

 

“I can't guarantee they _don't_ have it,” Margot shrugs. “If they don't yet, they will eventually- they're not completely incompetent.”

 

“Where?” Will asks, and there are other important questions, but this is the most important one of all.

 

“Paris.” Margot shrugs. “This was ten days ago. I don't have anything else.”

 

“It's more than I had five minutes ago,” Will says, and he meets her eyes, the greatest gesture of gratitude he is capable of giving. She nods.

 

“We'll finance you to go. If the job is... completed, you will never want for anything again,” Margot says slowly.

 

Will smiles, and nods.

 

The Vergers stand up and Margot passes Will a thick white envelope. Their fingers brush and Will stares at her, willing her to show some emotion, any emotion, about the loss that they have sustained together. She swallows, and he wonders if that is all he is going to get.

 

“Everything is in there,” Margot says. “You fly tomorrow.”

 

They leave, Mason throwing Will dark glances as they go. Will sits down, cradling the envelope in his hands, weighing up the smooth paper in his hands. This is it. This is what will allow him to catch Hannibal.

 

He knows it's not going to be easy, but he has nothing else to live for. Once the job is done, he will finally be free.

 

He becomes aware of Chilton staring at him.

 

“Who were they?” Chilton asks.

 

“Margot and Mason Verger.” Will scratches his curls. “Mason Verger was drugged by Hannibal and fed his own face to my dogs.”

 

Chilton pales. He looks aghast. “Do you really think it's a good idea to work for them? He wanted to kill you, Will.”

 

“He isn't going to get a chance,” says Will without thinking, because he knows what he is going to do after he kills Hannibal Lecter.

 

“Will...”

 

Will looks hard at Chilton, who is still standing helplessly. He is a small man, a good couple of inches smaller than Will, who is not exactly tall himself. He is narrow, with a distinctive softening around the waist.

 

Will remembers when Chilton pointed a gun at him. _You're not a killer._ It was Chilton's face that made Will feel safe, not his body, the same face which is now twisted with an emotion Will can't name.

 

“Don't,” says Will, because he can't let anything sidetrack him.


	6. Freddie

Chilton makes dinner that night.

 

Will has spent the day in a haze, packing his things, daydreaming about Abigail, walking his dogs. He has a strange sense of satisfaction, the idea that soon he will be able to fix something that has gone horribly wrong.

 

He has ignored Chilton all day, and so he decides to be nice to him, because Chilton has been there for him since he woke up in hospital, and because he needs Chilton to look after his dogs.

 

“This looks delicious,” Will says, looking at the pasta, even though it doesn't.

 

Chilton is no Hannibal, that is certain.

 

He seems to be thinking the same thing himself, a self-depreciating smile tugging the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he says.

 

They eat in silence. Will drinks a lot of red wine, the taste reminding him of happier times at Hannibal's dinner table. Chilton drinks water, watching Will closely.  
  


“Will,” he says eventually.

 

“Chilton,” says Will automatically. He is concentrating on shovelling food into his mouth. He realises that this is the first meal he has eaten since he woke up in hospital.

 

“Frederick, please. Just Frederick.”

 

“Frederick.” Will has finished his plate, and pushes it away, sipping his wine and looking at Chilton.

 

Chilton appears to be trying to say something. He is frowning, eyes distant. His tongue shoots out and licks his lips nervously. The sight evokes in a slightly drunken Will feelings it _definitely_ should not evoke.

 

“Frederick,” Will says again, unconsciously, his voice low.

 

Something about his tone shocks Chilton, whose frown takes on a totally different meaning as he glances back at Will.

 

Is he repulsed by Will? That stings, more than it should.

 

“I'm worried about you, Will,” Chilton says, and his voice has its professional taint, reminding Will of the time when bars separated them.

 

“Why?”

 

“Don't go after Hannibal Lecter. Please. You won't find him, Will; the world's a huge place. He could be anywhere by now. And even if you do, you won't be able to kill him.”

 

Will stares hard at Chilton. He is intoxicated and tense. “Believe me, Doctor Chilton, I  _will_ kill Hannibal Lecter.”

 

Chilton takes his hand. It startles Will more than he would ever admit, and he looks at their fingers entwined on the table. Chilton's fingers are soft, of course, but also strong and pleasantly warm. There is something so pure and innocent in the image of their hands together.

 

“We can move on together,” Chilton says very softly, and Will wonders what he means.

 

It is the most tempting thing. Whatever is being offered here, Will wishes he could accept it. He can taste his heart in his mouth.

 

He tears his fingers away from Chilton's reluctantly.

 

“I wish I could,” he says.

 

Chilton nods.

 

“You can stay here, if you like.” Will is forcing himself to keep looking at Chilton. He is uncomfortable, but it is in a different way. “In fact, I'd like it if you did- the dogs-”

 

“Will,” Chilton speaks over the top of him. “I have been thinking a lot today, and I have decided that I'm... I'm coming with you.” He sounds confident, as usual, but there is also the vague uncertainty that is beneath every utterance he makes.

 

Will doesn't reply. There is a hot, light feeling inside of him that he can't place. He is staring at Chilton again, confused and startled.

 

Frederick Chilton looks back. In the shadowy half-light of the kitchen, he looks younger than he is, braver than he is.

 

“You can't,” Will hears himself saying eventually.

 

“I will find someone else to look after the dogs,” Chilton says.

 

“No- it's not that. Frederick, you're not a killer.” Will drags a hand through his beard. “I don't want you to become one for me.”

 

“I have no intention of becoming a killer. Hannibal Lecter ruined my life, too, Will. I want to come with you.”

 

Will senses that there are many things left unsaid.

 

“I know you think you're alone, Will.”

 

“You're not my friend,” Will replies automatically, but even he doesn't believe it now.

 

“You don't have to be alone.” Chilton takes Will's hand again, his grip firm and and insistent.

 

Will swallows around a painful lump in his throat. He has been so sure that he is alone. Hannibal crafted things so that the only thing Will had in his life was their destructive, poisonous relationship, and now that that is gone, Will has only the desire to kill Hannibal.

 

This is confusing. He blinks, squeezes Chilton's fingers.

 

There is the sound of a car outside and Will stands up. He is tense and he wonders who is here. Chilton looks scared again; he has also stood up and taken a step closer to Will. The engine stops, and there are several high-heeled footsteps.

 

Will goes to the door, Chilton following, and opens it to reveal Freddie Lounds.

 

She glances at Chilton, then glares at Will. “Tell me you didn't know about Abigail.”

 

Will is surprised by this, although he supposes he shouldn't be; Freddie was one of the few people he knows as more than a passing acquaintance whose head he has allowed himself inside. He knows she cared about Abigail. “I didn't,” he says.

 

Her next words shock him. “Tell me you're going to get him.”

 

Something clicks in his brain. “I have a favour to ask you on that front, actually.”

 

The ghost of a smile plays around her mouth. “I'd better come inside then.”

 

She sits on the sofa, opposite Chilton, and he brings her a glass of wine.

 

“You've been writing some rather cruel things about me,” Chilton says.

 

Freddie glances at him. “You have been acting rather strangely since you got out. Moving into Will Graham's house while he was still out cold in the hospital was not the act of a sane person.” She looks between Chilton and Will, her eyebrows lowering. “It does seem a little bit strange that you're still here with him.”

 

“That's what I want you to write about,” Will says, at the exact same moment as Chilton says, “Don't write about this.”

 

They look at each other, Chilton looking betrayed. Will sits down beside him, not touching, but it is intended to comfort him.

 

Freddie looks utterly bemused.

 

“We're going after Hannibal Lecter,” Will says. “I promise you that I'll do what needs to be done.”

 

“But you don't want him to know that you've gone after him,” Freddie says, her eyes brightening as she realises what Will is asking.

 

“Write that we're still here- hell, say Frederick Chilton and I are having some sort of breakdown together.”  
  


He half expects her to ask what is in it for her, but she just nods.

 

“You can have the story afterwards,” Will says. “I'll keep a record for you, if you want. Just promise me you'll keep Frederick's name untarnished.”

 

Freddie frowns slightly. “What about your name? You'll be admitting to-”

 

“It won't matter,” Will says, and Chilton exhales sharply. “I need my dogs looking after, too.”

 

“Deal.” Freddie drains her wine, stands up. Will follows her to the door to let her out, and she surprises him by turning to him and smiling. “Thank you, Will.” She is thanking him for killing Hannibal Lecter, not for agreeing to let her have the story.

 

Will shuts the door and turns, surprised to find that Chilton is standing right in front of him, arms folded. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and he has pulled his tie loose; he looks dishevelled and strangely appealing.

 

“Will, what are you going to do once you have killed Hannibal?” He is trying to keep his tone professional, but he fails; his voice cracks.

 

Will doesn't want to talk about it. There is an end point in his life, an end point that is coming. Hannibal is all that is left.

 

He is calm, and he is at peace with this idea.

 

Chilton, apparently, is not. “Will-” he starts again.

 

Will isn't sure what makes him do it. Perhaps it is the wine. Perhaps it is the memory of trapping Frederick Chilton beneath him in bed that morning. Perhaps it's just the easiest way to shut Chilton up. He leans forward and kisses Chilton, and it's rougher than it should be, his lips forcing Frederick's open.

 

He wraps one hand around the base of Chilton's neck and pulls him closer, so that their bodies are flush, pressing against each other.

 

He darts his tongue out and brushes Frederick's lip with it, and then he can taste the moan the movement arouses. Chilton is kissing him back.

 

Until he isn't, and he's pulling away. “Will...” He's blushing, he's avoiding looking at Will.

 

Will regrets it instantly. Blood is rushing to his face; his cheeks are glowing and burning. He walks around Chilton to get to the stairs. “Goodnight, Frederick.”


	7. A Postcard

Hannibal's postcard finds Will the next morning.

 

Chilton has brought in a stack of mail and left it on the table. He is stoically ignoring Will, munching on a piece of toast and sipping a cup of coffee as he reads a paper. Will supposes he deserves to be ignored.

 

He feels like an ass for that kiss. He's still not even convinced he likes Chilton all that much. It's not fair to drag Chilton into his life when all that is in that life is Hannibal.

 

He should apologise, but he doesn't. Perhaps Chilton will finally get over his stupid idea of coming with Will.

 

Will flips through the pile of mail absent-mindedly. His heart lurches up into his mouth as he sees the image of the Eiffel Tower. He swallows, turning it over.

 

The neat, flowing handwriting belongs to Hannibal. Will traces the three words with his thumb, caressing them without thinking about it.

 

_You are mine._

 

Will feels sick. The worst thing is that the words are true.

 

Even now, when Hannibal has left his Will's life- hell, left the country- he is the primary focus of it, to the extent that Will is about to drop everything and chase after him.

 

Will's heart thunders. He dreamt of Hannibal's embrace last night, dreamt of Hannibal's kisses, and this postcard feels very precious. Hannibal has touched this. Will has a ridiculous, powerful urge to raise the postcard to his face and breathe in its scent.

 

He forces himself to get a grip. He checks the date. The card was sent two days ago.

 

Chilton has apparently noticed something is wrong. “What are you frowning at?” he asks dismissively, snootily, back to being his usual insufferable self.

 

Will tries to tell Chilton that Hannibal has sent him a postcard, but the only word that leaves his lips is, “Hannibal.”

 

“What?” Chilton is standing up, his face displeased. He crosses the room and holds out his hand for the postcard, an unconscious gesture of a man used to getting his own way.

 

Will passes it to him, watches him study it. Chilton has shaved his beard off, and his skin has an unpleasant reddish hue. He sees Chilton mouth the words.

 

“You are his?” he says finally, looking up at Will. There is disbelief in his voice, and something else that Will can't focus on.

 

“He isn't wrong, is he?” Will replies hollowly. “I'm about to chase him halfway around the world.”

 

“ _We're_ about to chase him halfway around the world,” Chilton corrects. “Although I'm not sure what I'm even thinking getting involved in this mess.” His voice is icy. He's annoyed with Will.

 

“I told you yesterday, you don't have to get involved,” Will retorts.

 

“While it is patently obvious that Hannibal Lecter is the beginning, middle and end of your existence, you are _not_ the only person he has affected.” Chilton's chest is rising and falling more quickly than usual. He is wearing a black sweater over a white shirt.

 

They stare at each other.

 

“Have you packed?” Will asks, giving in.

 

Chilton nods. “I had a look at the paperwork you were given. We will need to buy another plane ticket. There is a passport in a fake name for you. I will simply have to use my actual passport.”

 

Will almost smiles at the idea of having a fake name. What he would like right now is a whole new identity; shedding his Will Graham skin and pulling on something new, something fresh and untainted would be delicious.

 

He showers while Chilton calls Freddie Lounds. He shoves his clothes into a battered suitcase, throws the postcard in for good measure, then takes it out and tucks it into his jacket pocket.

 

He is saying goodbye to the dogs when they hear the car pull up outside. Will feels sad, and Chilton wisely stays silent as they leave Will's little house and head down to Freddie Lounds' car. Will wonders if this will be the last time he sees this place.

 

Freddie Lounds remains in the driver's seat as Chilton and Will stash their suitcases in the boot. Will climbs in the passenger seat and looks up at his house, tears burning his eyes, as Chilton gets in the back.

 

“Dare I even ask why you two couldn't just get a cab?” Freddie asks, pulling away.

 

“You're the only person we trust, Freddie,” Will says lightly.

 

She laughs. “I always knew there was something wrong with you, Will Graham.”

 

“Can we make a stop at the hospital?” Will asks.

 

Freddie looks intrigued. She nods, and Will can see her brain trying to answer her own questions. “Alana Bloom,” she says finally.

 

“Very good,” says Will dryly. “Perhaps you should go join Jack Crawford.”

 

“I'm far too morally ambiguous to be a police officer.”

 

They share a chuckle.

 

“Why are we going to visit Alana Bloom?” Freddie asks.

 

Will doesn't reply. He thinks back to Alana before all of this, before Hannibal Lecter had entered his life and destroyed it. The lingering glances, the brief smiles. He had fancied himself in love with her- or at least he had thought he liked her as more than a friend. Hannibal has shown him love, shown him how dark and cruel and overpowering it was. Alana isn't those things.

 

He is still lost in thought when they arrive at the hospital. Chilton and Freddie are exchanging some conversation but it is dull and drifts harmlessly over him. He exits the car without saying anything, heading inside.

 

He is still walking slowly, and being in the hospital reminds him that he is _unwell._ He shouldn't be about to attempt to find and kill Hannibal. He still hasn't looked at the wound.

 

Alana is in bed when he arrives. She is asleep. He thinks about how beautiful she looks, how peaceful and serene.

 

He considers not waking her.

 

“Alana,” he says quietly.

 

She opens her eyes. For a moment, everything that has happened falls away. “Will,” she breathes, the faintest smile lighting up her face.

 

“Hello,” he says.

 

She remembers everything. The smile fades. “Why are you here?”

 

“I just wanted to say...” Will suddenly doesn't know what he wants to say. “I just wanted to say that you were... brave.”  
  


She frowns a little, and emotions cross her face so quickly that he can't read them.

 

“I'm proud of you,” he says, because it feels right.

 

“I'm proud of you, too,” she replies.

 

Will is thinking about her sad eyes as he returns to Freddie's car. He climbs in and they set off, and again he can hear his companions talking but he is utterly lost in his own mind. He wonders how proud Alana will be if he kills Hannibal.

 

Freddie pulls up in the airport car park. Hours might have passed; Will has been lost in his thoughts for so long.

 

“Do we have enough time?” he asks Chilton.

 

Chilton nods.

 

Will turns to Freddie. “My dogs,” he says.

 

She touches his arm. After everything that has happened between them, the touch is unexpected. “I promise, Will.”

 

She passes him a piece of paper with her email address written on it, and he tucks it into his pocket, feeling the postcard brushing his fingers as he does.

 

“If you get a chance, if it's safe, email me,” she says. It sounds almost tender, almost like she cares, until she adds, “And remember to keep those notes.”

 

“Thank you, Freddie,” Will says.

 

Chilton and Will climb out, collect their suitcases and watch the car drive away. Together, they walk slowly inside, Chilton leaning on his cane, Will really struggling with the exertion he has put his body under today.

 

They get to the airline desk and face each other.

 

“Last chance to back out,” Will says, offering Chilton a grim smile.

 

Chilton visibly hesitates. He is a coward. He is not foolhardy and reckless like Will, he does not revel in chaos like Hannibal, he is not straightforward and good like Alana. He is something else entirely. But whatever he is nods and offers Will a humourless smile. “Let's do this,” he says, and it's so funny that Will bursts out laughing.

 

He laughs so hard that other people start to look at them. He laughs so hard that his eyes start to stream. He laughs so hard that his stitches stretch uncomfortably. He can't remember the last time he laughed like this. He wonders if this will be the last time that he laughs like this.

 

Chilton looks baffled by his reaction.

 

When Will finally recovers, he wipes his eyes. “I'm sorry about last night.”

 

“Entirely understandable,” Chilton says, and that cracks Will up again.

 

Perhaps _this_ will be the last time he laughs like this.

 

They end up sitting away from each other on the plane. Will closes his eyes and takes the postcard out of his pocket, trailing his fingers over the words again as they take off.

 

Will is Hannibal's, and that is a fact he can't argue with. But Hannibal isn't Will's, and that is something he has to fix before the end.


	8. The Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay! I’ve had my own health problems, my 24th birthday and my mum’s been in hospital over the last couple of weeks so my writing has slowed right down. That said, I am hopefully going to be updating more regularly now.
> 
> Massive thanks to [Jinx](http://stolenponcho.tumblr.com) for giving me lots of information about Paris and volunteering to help minimise the inevitable location cock-ups I will include, and also for being super patient with my apparent inability to reply to emails in a timely fashion.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Vergers have booked a hotel for the first five nights of their stay. There is a credit card in Will's fake name- _William Gray-_ in the pack they have been provided with. Presumably, they can decide if they want to stay here or move on, depending on what they find out about Hannibal.

 

Obviously, they were expecting Will to travel alone. The suite, although spacious, only has one bed. Chilton sulks as he realises he is going to spending even more nights on a couch. It is warm in Paris, and Will opens the window.

 

He breathes in the air. He is  _convinced_ that Hannibal is out in the city.

 

Margot Verger has arranged for a package to be delivered to them upon arrival. Chilton is horrified to discover a cache of weapons. Will intends to kill Hannibal with his hands, but he loads the pistol and places it in the top drawer of the dresser. He places the rest of the box in the wardrobe.

 

He is keen to get started. He showers and pulls on jeans and a black t-shirt, realising it is too warm for a shirt. When he pads back into the room, Chilton has nodded off on the bed.

 

Will is considering heading out into the city without him when the telephone rings, startling them both. Will lifts the receiver, half-convinced it will be Hannibal's voice on the other end.

 

“You've arrived?” Margot asks.

 

Will feels relieved and disappointed. “Yes.”

 

“Is Doctor Chilton with you?”

 

Will considers lying, but he senses it is pointless. “Yes.”

 

“Call me with updates.” Margot hangs up.

 

Will stares at the receiver. It is almost impossible to believe that he once created a life with this woman. Shaking his head, he hangs up.

 

Chilton is watching him, blinking sleepily. Will is very aware of his dishevelled wet hair, and he pushes a hand through it awkwardly.

 

“Get some sleep,” Will says. “I'm going to walk the city.”

 

Chilton pushes himself up on his elbows. At some point, he has abandoned his sweater, and his white shirt is creased. “I can come-” he offers, but it is half-hearted and they both know it.

 

“Sleep. I'll be back soon.”

 

Outside, it is starting to rain, a warm drizzle that is unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Will walks slowly, taking his time, careful not to hurt himself. He is very aware of being in a new city; the buzz around him is made up entirely of fluent French, a language Will knows practically nothing of.

 

He feels calm. He is going to find Hannibal Lecter. He breathes in deeply again, half-convinced he can taste Hannibal in the rain.

 

Of course, he isn't going to find Hannibal tonight. But he can start to get a taste of places Hannibal might like to go. He slips into Hannibal's mind set easily, and he looks around, judging and deciding, creating a mental list.

 

He looks up at the distant Eiffel Tower and decides that Hannibal would find it clichéd, its beauty lessened for being loved by so many.

 

Will wonders if Hannibal finds him beautiful.

 

He stops for coffee, and sits outside with it, even though he is the only person sitting in the street. He imagines that every well-dressed man is Hannibal. He forces himself to be patient.

 

Eventually, he is soaked through, and wearing just a t-shirt seems foolish. The fabric sticks to his body as he makes his way back to the hotel in the fading light of day.

 

Chilton is still fast asleep when Will arrives back. Will peels off his shirt and lies down on the sofa, deciding not to disturb him. He is suddenly exhausted, and he closes his eyes.

 

If he had left with Hannibal and Abigail, would they have taken that walk around the city together? Would Hannibal have held his hand? Scolded him for not taking a jacket? Would Hannibal have finally kissed him in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower?

 

Will slips into fitful dreams.

 

He wakes up on his side, sweaty and shaking. It is pitch black in the room; he can hear Chilton snoring away. He fumbles in his jeans for his phone, and loads the email application, typing a quick message to Freddie.

 

_We arrived safely. No sign of him yet.- W_

 

His phone pings a second later.

 

_You'll find him. Fed the dogs. Check my site. -F_

 

He loads up Tattle Crime and gives a humourless smile at the headline. _Chesapeake Ripper Suspects Living Together._ He hopes Hannibal reads it. He wants him to be jealous.

 

Will knows there is something very wrong with him. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and rubs agitatedly at his face. He is suddenly wide awake.

 

Hannibal is like a hole in his chest.

 

For a moment, Will misses him so much that he can't breathe. He groans aloud. This is why Will cannot live after he has killed Hannibal. He wants to be with Hannibal almost as much as he wants to kill him.

 

Will is quite sure it is not possible for him to live a life without Hannibal.

 

“Will?” The bedside lamp clicks on suddenly. “Are you... groaning?”

 

Will sits up and looks at Chilton, who is still wearing his shirt. His hair is sticking up and his eyes are narrowed as he stares at Will.

 

“Sorry. Nightmare. You'll get used to them if you keep sleeping in the same room as me.”

 

“You're injured,” Chilton says. “You need to be in the bed. Get up, we can swap.”

 

Coming from Frederick Chilton, this is a generous offer indeed. Will shrugs. “We can share the bed. It's big enough.”

 

He stands up without waiting for a reply and crosses to the bed. He becomes aware of Chilton's eyes fixed on his body, and he remembers he is not wearing a shirt. Chilton must be staring at his wound, the wound Will hasn't been able to look at yet. Even the idea of looking at the dressing makes him feel strange.

 

He flushes. “I'll put a shirt on if it's that bad,” he offers dryly.

 

Chilton suddenly goes scarlet and his eyes widen as Will climbs into the bed. “What- the wound? Sorry. Sorry.”

 

Will lies down. He wants to take his jeans off but he thinks that might be too strange. After all, Chilton is practically fully dressed. The bed is big enough for both men to lie in without touching.

 

Chilton clicks off the light.

 

They listen to each other breathing in the dark for a while.

 

“Did you find anything?” Chilton whispers, and he sounds strangely far away.

 

“No.”

 

“I know it was too much to hope for, but I rather hoped he would just be waiting for us at the airport.”

 

Will chuckles at that image. “We should be grateful he doesn't know we're here.”

 

“You don't think he'd be glad to see you?” The words are strangely tentative.

 

Will considers the question. “He'll be thrilled to see another reminder that he's the centre of my universe,” he says lightly, and it's a joke, but it's also very serious.

 

“Maybe we should think about what can be the centre of your universe after all this,” Chilton says, even though they both know there isn't an _after this_ for Will.

 

“Knitting,” Will suggests.

 

“I like a good crossword puzzle.”

 

“Of course you do,” Will says.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

Will rolls onto his side, so that he is facing Chilton, even though he can't see him in the dark. “It's just the sort of thing I can imagine you enjoying, Frederick,” he says.

 

“Are you afraid?” Chilton asks suddenly.

 

“Of Hannibal?”

 

“Of finding him. Or of him finding us.”

 

Will shakes his head, then remembers that Chilton can't see him. “No. I know how this ends. I know my design.”

 

“Do you mind if I'm scared?” Chilton asks.

 

“Not at all.”


	9. Will's Limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay. Life has been ridiculous lately, but hopefully things will settle down soon and I can start posting this more regularly.

Will wakes up first, and their limbs have somehow become entwined in the night.

 

He is very aware of his legs tangled up in Chilton's, very aware of how close they now are. Chilton has flung his arm out in his sleep and it is now slung over Will's side. It is hot, but somehow not unpleasant.

 

Will _should_ be able to close his eyes and imagine that it is Hannibal wrapped around him; that is an image which has haunted him for months now. But when he closes his eyes, the images don't come, and he ends up just staring at Frederick's face.

 

He looks older in the way that Hannibal looks older- handsomely so, with the lightest suggestion that he is better looking now than he was before. His cheeks are fuller than Hannibal's, though. They look soft.

 

His stubble is coming in, and Will decides that this is the best look for Frederick Chilton, the one he likes the most.

 

Will remembers how Chilton pulled away from their kiss. He remembers how Chilton had looked utterly horrified when Will rolled on top of him in his bed. He remembers how quickly Chilton had forgotten the moment. He remembers how Chilton had frowned when Will's voice had become drunkenly suggestive over dinner.

 

None of this has seemed like a big deal, but staring at Chilton's face now, Will realises he is attracted to Chilton.

 

_How_ can he be attracted to Chilton?

 

In addition to the fact that he is pompous and irritating, Frederick's major weakness is that he isn't Hannibal. Hannibal who is the centre of Will's universe.

 

“Shit,” says Will aloud, because there really is nothing else to do.

 

Chilton's eyes snap open, and he frowns when he realises how close he is to Will, which obviously makes Will feel even worse. Chilton flushes and moves his arm, but he doesn't seem to notice their entangled legs. “What's the matter?” he asks sleepily.

 

“Nightmare,” Will says, falling back on his standard excuse.

 

Chilton reaches out and puts his hand on Will's shoulder. His eyes are closing again. “Go back to sleep, Will.”

 

If the touch is meant to relax and comfort Will, it does the opposite. His skin ignites under the touch. What is wrong with him? Is he just frustrated? Is this some weird subconscious desire to hurt Hannibal?

 

He groans, and Chilton's eyes open again.

 

“Will, what is wrong?” he asks.

 

He's concerned. It creases his face, makes him frown slightly.

 

Will has to try very hard to resist reaching out and stroking his fingers over those creases.

 

“It's morning, Doc, time to get up,” he says.

 

It is Chilton's turn to groan. He moves away from Will and stands up. Will feels the absence of him with regret.

 

It takes Chilton a long time to shower. Will focuses on their job to stop himself from picturing the scene inside the bathroom.

 

He slips into Hannibal's head again. Where would he go? Hannibal feels safe here. He feels clever. He will still be celebrating. That is Hannibal's greatest downfall and weakness.

 

Will must be wearing Hannibal's facial expression, too, because Chilton does a double take as he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and he looks briefly worried.

 

“Sorry,” Will says, rubbing his eyes. “I'm just trying to figure out where Hannibal will be.”

 

Chilton is wearing a dark green shirt over black trousers. His hair is damp.

 

Will almost groans again.

 

“Any ideas?” Chilton asks, crossing to the mirror and starting to sort out his hair.

 

Will stares at him. “He's celebrating. He'll be somewhere fancy, but tasteful.”

 

Chilton glances at him. “Will, your gift is really extraordinary. It's fascinating.”

 

Will has the uncomfortable feeling he had during their early meetings. “Don't study me, Doctor Chilton,” he says, standing up and heading to the bathroom.

 

He takes a cold shower and pulls on a clean t-shirt, this one white, and jeans, avoiding looking at his torso. He is not in a good mood.

 

Chilton is waiting outside the bathroom door and Will jumps when he opens it.

 

“I do not want to study you,” Chilton says, eyes wide. “I want to be your friend.”

 

Will smiles. “You can be my friend if you start phoning hotels. We're going to see if we can track Hannibal down.”

 

They spend several hours on the phone. Most people they speak to are dismissive; the story they are going with is that they are hunting for their uncle, who will be going by a false name because he is travelling with a woman who isn't his wife.

 

“We're going to have to go out and find them,” Will says eventually, collapsing against the pillows on the bed.

 

Chilton is sitting up, chewing a pen and looking at the list of hotels Will picked to call.

 

“We can go out this afternoon,” he muses. “A lot of these are in a two mile radius.”

 

They set off in the hazy sunshine. Chilton leans on his cane and is wearing expensive-looking shades. Will has his glasses on, afraid to miss a detail. The streets are busy.

 

They stop off at the first hotel and sit in the café. Chilton orders coffees; unsurprisingly, he speaks excellent French. They keep a careful eye out as they drink.

 

“Tell me about you and Hannibal,” Chilton says.

 

Will glances at him, but he is looking determinedly away. He exhales. “You know about me and Hannibal.”

 

“I know you were friends. I know he manipulated you, framed you for murder, got you locked up in my facility. I know you betrayed him and he killed Abigail Hobbs.”

 

“Those are the essential facts, Frederick.” The sun is starting to get brighter, and it is burning the back of Will's neck.

 

He feels Chilton shoot him a glance from behind his sunglasses. “I am many things, Will Graham, but I am not a fool. There is more.”  
  


Will smiles humourlessly. So much more. “Entertain me, Frederick. Tell me what you think.”

 

“You were lovers, but you couldn't get over his penchant for murder, so you had to turn him in. It all went wrong, but the pair of you are still longing for each other. You know you have to kill him, but you're convinced that you won't be able to live with yourself when you do it.”

 

Will glances at him, raising an eyebrow. Chilton looks smug. Will shrugs. “Every time I think you're an appalling psychiatrist, you analyse me so well. You're close. We were never  _actually_ lovers.”

 

“No?” Chilton sounds surprised, and relieved.

 

“It was implied. Heavily. Suggested. I think that if I had taken him up on his offer to run away with him...” Will trails off. He isn't sure why he's telling Chilton this. It is raw and painful.

 

“You're in love with him?”

 

“I don't think 'love' is what most people would term what we have. It's a mutual overwhelming obsession.”

 

Chilton frowns.

 

Will has an idea. It is simple, and clear. It is risky but perfect.

 

He is obsessed with Hannibal, and Hannibal is obsessed with him.

 

“Come on,” he says, grabbing Chilton's hand.

 

“Where are we going?” Chilton asks, grabbing his cane.

 

“I have had the greatest plan,” Will tells him. They are weaving through the crowd slowly, and Will is aware that Chilton is still allowing Will to hold his hand.

 

They stop in front of the Eiffel Tower. The place is crowded. Chilton glances at it, then faces Will.

 

“I don't understand,” he says.

 

“I know,” Will replies. He digs in his pocket for his phone with one hand, and reaches for Frederick's face with the other, tugging the sunglasses off.

 

Chilton is confused.

 

Will really should explain the plan, but something gets the better of him, and he kisses Frederick for the second time.

 

He is gentler this time, lips tentative and soft, reminding himself that this is part of the plan and it is not terrible if Chilton pulls away.

 

Chilton seems dazed, but not reluctant, and he reaches up to tangle his hand in Will's hair. Their mouths work, tongues meeting doubtfully then with more surety. Frederick tastes of coffee. It is hard for Will to remember the plan.

 

Frederick doesn't notice Will raising his arm but he suddenly tenses when he hears the click of the camera on Will's phone going off. He practically leaps back from Will, eyes flashing. His cheeks are scarlet, and Will knows his are too.

 

At least he knows now that Chilton doesn't find him repulsive.

 

“What are you doing?” Chilton asks.

 

“Mutual overwhelming obsession,” Will replies. “Hannibal sees this and knows we're in Paris. He'll come looking.”

 

“I thought that was what we didn't want!” Chilton snaps. “I do not want to be perceived as a threat!”

 

Will smiles at that, and considers showing Chilton the photograph, but decides to save it for later. He emails it to Freddie along with a single line of text.  _Change of plan- W._

 

They make their way back to the hotel in silence. Chilton is angry, and Will senses he is embarrassed.

 

Will gets an email as they enter the lift in the hotel. _Are you sure?- F_

 

He frowns, hesitates. Glancing over at Frederick, who is concentrating on ignoring Will, he feels a stab of doubt. He doesn't want Frederick to be perceived as a threat.

 

He was convinced he would do anything, give anything, to make sure that Hannibal got what he deserved. He is relieved to find that he does still have a limit.

 

And he is terrified that the limit is Doctor Frederick Chilton.

 

He types his reply.  _Keep hold of it for now.- W_


	10. Everything Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chilton speaking Spanish is a headcanon I seem to have caught.
> 
> I wrote the second half of this chapter listening to the Iron and Wine version of Such Great Heights, if listening to music while you read is your thing.

Chilton is in a bad mood with Will. He frowns and mutters beneath his breath as he flicks aggressively through a textbook he is reading on the bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

 

Will should be making notes, or planning, or thinking about Hannibal, but he is inexplicably drawn to Chilton; he finds himself unable to look away. He sits on the sofa, pretending to study a guidebook, but he keeps looking up at the psychiatrist.

 

He isn't sure why Chilton is so arresting when he is angry; perhaps it is the fact that his hair is sticking up slightly from his fingers tugging through it. Will wants to run his own fingers through it. The thought is disarming but not surprising. They have kissed twice now, after all.

 

Will can't hear him properly, but he is convinced that Chilton is muttering in Spanish. The thought makes him swallow hard.

 

Eventually, the temptation to provoke him into a row is too much. “ _What_ are you muttering about, Frederick?” he asks.

 

Chilton glares at him, fixing him with a firm stare over the rim of his glasses. “I think that is quite obvious, William.”

 

“I told Freddie not to publish that photograph.”

 

“Why?” Chilton's voice is confused, distrusting. He narrows his eyes at Will.

 

_Because I don't want you to be perceived as a threat_ . “I'm just not sure the world is ready to see that,” Will says lightly.

 

His aim is to antagonise Chilton, and it works. Chilton snaps the book shut and shoves it to the bed. “Why not?” he demands.

 

“It's, ah, quite graphic, Frederick.”

 

“You don't want people to see us.... you know?”

 

“Kissing, I believe it's called.”

 

Chilton goes pink and folds his arms. Will feels the beginnings of a smirk, and he is vaguely aware that it is a long time since he had so much fun with another person.

 

“As it happens,” Will continues, pushing himself lightly to his feet, “I have no issue with the world seeing it. You may recall it happened it public.”

 

Chilton does not reply. Will takes a step towards the bed. Chilton is avoiding looking at him; Will realises that he wants Frederick to look him in the eye. Normally, such things make him uncomfortable, but he has a strong desire to hold eye contact with Chilton before kissing him so hard it bruises him.

 

What is wrong with him?

 

“Do you want to see the photograph, Frederick?”

 

“Leave me alone,” Chilton snaps.

 

Will digs the phone out of his pocket and scrolls to the photograph, holding his phone out to Frederick. “There you go.”

 

“I'm not looking.”

 

Will isn't sure what makes him do it. He seems to have no control whatsoever around Chilton. Pouncing onto the bed, he straddles the smaller man. Chilton struggles, shocked, but Will has the advantages of position and strength. He pins one of Frederick's wrists to the bed and places the phone in front of his face.

 

Chilton frowns slightly as he looks at the picture. It is  _glorious_ ; Chilton's eyes are shut in the photograph, an expression of pure ecstasy on his face. One of his hands is tangled wantonly in Will's hair. Their mouths are open, and a glimpse of pink tongue is visible.

 

“What do you think?” Will breathes. He is aware of his heart racing in his chest.

 

Frederick doesn't speak. Instead, he makes a small sound in his throat that sounds like a squeak. He looks at Will with his cloudy blue eyes, the ones that Will had found so interesting, and Will sees confusion and fear in their depths, but also desire.

 

Will is lost.

 

He allows his phone to drop to the bed and kisses Frederick, forcing him down against the pillow. Frederick breathes something against Will's lips, words he can't understand, before giving into the kiss. As their lips work, Frederick flexes his wrist in Will's grasp, trying to free it, but the sudden power that surges through Will is an irresistible aphrodisiac, and he grabs Frederick's other wrist.

 

Will is aroused. He  _wants_ Frederick, wants to tear off his stupid shirt and drag his tongue down the scar on his stomach before licking lower, lower, lower down his body.

 

He forces himself to pull back when they are both short of breath.

 

“Please,” Frederick says.

 

Will relents, releasing his wrists and rolling off him. He is panting. He leans back against the pillows and stares at Chilton. He is not used to feeling so bold when it comes to this sort of thing.

 

“I... I meant please let me breathe. You didn't have to get off me,” Frederick says shakily. His cheeks are scarlet.

 

“I feel I should apologise for pinning you to the bed,” Will replies, although he doesn't mean it.

 

“Truly, there's no need.” Frederick visibly hesitates, then reaches out to touch Will's fingers. “Why do you keep kissing me?”

 

Will is trying not to think about it too much. “I like kissing you,” he says simply.

 

“But... Hannibal...”

 

Will closes his eyes. He is aware that he hasn't thought of Hannibal for at least twenty minutes, and he can't remember the last time that happened.

 

“Don't ask me whatever it is you're about to ask,” he says.

 

“Did you kiss him?” Frederick asks quietly, ignoring him. Will still has his eyes shut but he can feel Frederick's eyes burning into him.

 

“No.”

 

“Did you want to?”

 

Will swallows. There is sweat on his neck, sweat that pooled there when he was hot with desire for Frederick Chilton. It has cooled now. “Yes,” he says.

 

There is a long moment of silence before Frederick surprises Will by tucking his face into Will's chest and cuddling into him. Will can feel his hot breath on his neck.

 

“I wish you didn't,” Frederick says gently.

 

Will wraps his arms around Frederick. He is soft and warm. There is nothing unpleasant, or odious, or unpalatable about the psychiatrist in this moment.

 

“Me, too,” Will replies.

 

A tear rolls down his cheek. It lands in Frederick's hair.

 

“I'm sorry,” says Will. He is sorry for everything; sorry he dragged Frederick out here with him, sorry he loves kissing him so much but can offer him nothing else, sorry he is such a fucked up mess. “I'm sorry,” he says again, and realises he is repeating it over and over again.

 

Frederick Chilton looks up at him, frowns softly, then cups his face in gentle fingers and kisses Will. It is the first time he has initiated a kiss between them, and it tastes different to Will. It tastes of something soft he doesn't know the name of. It tastes bittersweet.

 

When he draws back, Frederick is biting his lip. “Don't be sorry,” he says.

 

He sits back on his heels, steadily maintaining eye contact with Will even though his chest is rising and falling quickly. His lips are swollen, his hair a tangled mess.

 

Will reaches forward and unfastens the top button of Frederick's shirt, pausing to see how he will react. When Frederick nods once, he unfastens the rest of them, surprised that his fingers are trembling.

 

Frederick's chest is golden, with dark hair. The scar on his abdomen is pink, not yet faded to white completely. It is oddly neat. Will's fingers brush it, and he wonders if his will look like this. He doesn't think he will mind if it does.

 

The shirt is pulled off. Frederick brushes the edge of Will's t-shirt tentatively, and Will hesitates, but he nods and lifts his arms so that he can peel it off. There is an awed look in Frederick's eyes as he looks at Will's torso, and Will looks at his dressing properly for the first time as Frederick fusses the edges of it.

 

He expects to feel sick, to think of Hannibal, but all he thinks of is the gentle hand brushing his skin.

 

They kiss again, naked skin burning as they roll down so they are facing each other, wrapped in the other's arms. Will is warm and tingling all over.

 

Chilton tries to unfasten Will's jeans with one hand but he can't, and he swears in Spanish, smiling shyly at Will as they break apart for a moment.

 

Will wants to speak; there are words in his throat, but he doesn't manage to get them out. He fumbles with his own jeans and then Chilton's trousers, and with some wriggling both men are naked.

 

“You are beautiful,” Frederick breathes.

 

“Frederick.”

 

These are the last words they say for a long time. Will strokes Frederick, who curls his hands around Will's shoulders, whimpering at the contact. His nails bite into Will's skin. He is hot and hard in Will's fingers, his end already glistening.

 

He is close when Will feels Frederick slide one hand down his front and wrap his fingers around Will's length, making Will moan. They lie together, touching each other, only breaking eye contact to close their eyes when they gasp for breath or cry out.

 

Frederick finishes first, burying his face into Will's shoulder as he does. His fingers falter around Will, but seconds later they are steady again, and Will muffles his shout in Frederick's hair as he finishes.

 

Will feels a sense of peace. His mind is blessedly empty, a state he rarely experiences. He is vaguely aware that he is sweaty, naked and sticky, wrapped around another man, but that doesn't seem as important as holding Frederick close and feeling him stroke his back absent-mindedly.

 

Everything has changed.


	11. Instinctive Response

Will's phone rings at five in the morning, startling him awake. He is hot, still wrapped in Frederick. His phone has fallen beneath the pillow, and he fishes it out. Frederick stirs and scowls at it, but he doesn't really wake up.

 

Will slides out of bed, the air cold on his skin, and he answers the phone as he pads towards the bathroom in the dark so he doesn't disturb Frederick.

 

“ _Chesapeake Ripper Suspects Living Together_ ,” come the heavily accented tones of Hannibal Lecter, reading the headline from Freddie Lounds' false article.

 

Will freezes. He wonders if his knees are going to give out, and he grips the bathroom doorway for support.

 

He has rehearsed what he wants to say to Hannibal, but it all dies on his tongue.

 

“I would like you to tell me, dear Will, that this merely Freddie Lounds in her usual tabloid style.” Hannibal's breaths are steady down the phone. Will can imagine he is standing right beside him, and wishes for a moment that he was.

 

Will takes a deep breath and closes the bathroom door behind him, sitting down on the edge of the bath in the dark. “Hannibal,” he manages.

 

“You are not particularly vocal, beloved,” Hannibal purrs. “It is still relatively early in Wolf Trap, is it not? I assumed that Frederick Chilton would have retired to bed with a glass of warm milk and I might be able to speak with you alone.”

 

The good news is that Hannibal has no idea that Will is in Paris. Will knows he has to try to get as much information out of him as possible.

 

“Where are you?” he asks. His voice is hoarse. He realises he is on the verge of tears.

 

“Did my postcard not find you?”

 

“Paris.” Will wishes he had it in his hand, so he could trail his fingers over the words. _You are mine_.

 

He can almost hear the smile on Hannibal's lips. “Do you miss me?”

 

Will closes his eyes. A tear escapes. He hates himself. He hates how weak he is. He thinks of Abigail. He thinks of Frederick. “Yes,” he whispers.

 

“Do you dream of me?”

 

He does, normally. He wasn't when Hannibal woke him up with this call, though. He was safe; wrapped in Frederick, shielded from his own darkness. The thoughts make him hesitate. Confused, he isn't sure how to proceed. “Yes.”

 

“Oh, dear William.”

 

“Where in Paris are you?” Will knows it is a long shot, but Hannibal is bold and brave; he does not know how close the danger that is Will Graham is.

 

Hannibal gives a smoky chuckle. It makes the hairs on the back of Will's neck rise. “You want vengeance, beloved. If I told you which hotel I am staying at, would you call Jack Crawford and have him alert the authorities here? Or would you follow me across the world and claim your vengeance with your hands? You used to fantasise about that so often.”

 

“I would do it with a knife,” Will chokes out, “like you did to her.”

 

Will is surprised to hear a break in the smooth rhythm of Hannibal's breathing at the mention of Abigail. He doesn't understand it; he has always found it difficult to slip into Hannibal's head. Hannibal is all smoke and darkness, so thick that Will can't penetrate.

 

“I know you would follow me,” Hannibal says softly, regaining his composure. “I am surprised that you haven't already. I created you.”

 

“You left me. You broke me.”

 

He hears Hannibal lick his lips, hears him begin to form words.

 

“Do not start with that God metaphor bullshit, Hannibal,” he interrupts, startling himself with the venom in his voice.

 

He imagines Hannibal raising an eyebrow at the rudeness of his outburst.

 

“Mere days with Frederick Chilton, and you are becoming quite vile, Will.”

 

“ _Don't_ mention him,” Will snaps. Instinctive response.

 

“Oh,” Hannibal replies. “Oh. I see. Frederick Chilton. Do you kiss him, Will? Do you touch him and imagine you are touching me?”

 

Will doesn't actually, hasn't yet imagined kissing anyone other than Chilton when he kisses the psychiatrist. That surprises him.

 

Hannibal mistakes his sharp breath for guilt, and chuckles again. “Dear Will.”

 

It is not that Will no longer wants to kiss Hannibal. That desire feels like it is permanently lodged into his brain. It is muddled up with his need to kill Hannibal, and now it is muddled up with his desire to kiss Frederick.

 

“You called me because you were jealous when you read Freddie Lounds' article,” Will spits.

 

“Perhaps a touch jealous. Mostly, I am fascinated. Do you imagine yourself in love with Frederick Chilton?”

 

“I know I am not capable of loving someone, not like that.” This is the truth.

 

“What about me?”

 

“You are not capable of that sort of love, either.”

 

“That is not what I was asking of you, Will.”

 

Will avoids his question. He is cold and shaking, aware of his nakedness. He is exhausted from talking with Hannibal, but he knows he needs to find out the name of Hannibal's hotel. If he does, he can finish this tonight.

 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal continues, “you are comforted and amused by Frederick Chilton's banality, his simplicity. _He_ is certainly capable of the most straightforward, unimaginative type of love. Do you think he feels it towards you?”

 

Will tries not to slip into Frederick's head; he has been avoiding it subconsciously for the past couple of days, because he knows what he will find there. “He believes that he does.” This is also the truth.

 

“What will you do with that love? Crush him? _Break_ him?”

 

“I am not you.”

 

Hannibal only laughs at that.

 

“I am looking at the Arc de Triomphe,” Hannibal says softly, suddenly changing the pace of the conversation. “It represents victory, you know.”

 

“Do you feel victorious?”

 

“No.” Hannibal's voice is soft. “I miss you.”

 

Will hangs up the phone. His heart is racing; he knows what he has to do. He goes back into the bedroom and pulls on his clothes quickly, throwing his dark coat over the top.

 

He is going to find Hannibal.

 

Pausing, he looks down at Frederick; the psychiatrist is fast asleep despite Will's noise, looking young and untroubled. Will doesn't deserve to have him; he knows that Frederick fancies himself in love with Will.

 

“I'm sorry,” Will tells him quietly, stooping to press a kiss to Frederick's forehead. He isn't sure what makes him do it; it is certainly not the sort of thing he would usually do.

 

It is extremely difficult to move away from Frederick.

 

He grabs the gun and stashes it in his coat before leaving the room. Alive, thrumming with focus and determination, he takes the stairs down to the ground floor and gets outside as quickly as he can.

 

The sky is still dark outside, but it is close to sunrise. The air is cool and fresh, threatening rain.

 

The hotel is not far from the Arc de Triomphe. Will sets off at a run. The streets are quiet at this time, and the few people he passes are far too drunk to be concerned with the dishevelled man fleeing past them.

 

He arrives at the Arc and doubles over, painfully out of breath. He is half-concerned he has torn his stitches.

 

Concentrating again, he looks around. The place is huge, and there are buildings all around, but they are not all hotels. Will is looking for a room with a light on; the room has to be in a prestigious, understated establishment. He tries his best to slip into Hannibal's mind, tries to place him in this scene.

 

There is a light in a window on the fourteenth floor of a lovely hotel on Avenue Carnot.

 

Will enters the hotel with a neutral expression. He nods to the doorman in a polite, confident manner, and steps into the lift. There is a man standing in a uniform, and he asks Will something in French.

 

“Fourteen,” Will replies.

 

The man presses the button, and the lift climbs smoothly.

 

Will fingers the gun in his pocket. He is close; he can taste Hannibal's nearness. He tries to concentrate, willing to the front of his mind the faces of those he needs to avenge: Beverly Katz, Abigail Hobbs, Alana Bloom, Frederick Chilton, Margot Verger, Will Graham.

 

He can't afford to get distracted.

 

He exits the elevator and walks along the corridor, his shoes sinking into the soft carpet. He counts doors until he is sure he is at the correct one. 1478.

 

Glancing around to ensure that he is alone, he knocks on the door.

 

He hears movement, and then the door swings open. He raises the gun and aims at Hannibal's head.

 

“Good morning, _beloved_ ,” he says.

 

Whatever he expects from Hannibal, it is not for his eyes to brighten and his face to soften. “Will,” he says, the word a silken caress.

 

Will is distracted.


	12. Unconditional

Will kicks the door shut behind him, never once letting the gun waver.

 

Hannibal is wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned at the neck, and soft black trousers. He is not wearing shoes.

 

He is staring at Will with an awed expression, a proud smile turning up the corners of his lips. “You never fail to amaze me,” he says quietly.

 

“Don't,” Will says. He supports the gun with his other hand.

 

They have been here before- Will pointing a gun at Hannibal, Hannibal expressing very much the wrong emotion about it. It is like slipping back into a favourite jumper, although Will has never been happy with how comfortable he feels as the Will Graham he becomes around Hannibal.

 

“How long have you been in Paris?” Hannibal asks, as if there isn't a gun pointed at his head, as if Will isn't here to murder him.

 

“Two nights,” Will replies.

 

“You followed me,” Hannibal says. He stares reverentially at Will. The look on his face is of the purest love, despite what Will has claimed he believes Hannibal capable of.

 

“You killed Abigail,” Will snarls, and the words burn his throat.

 

Hannibal looks away, and Will remembers the pause on the phone when he mentioned Abigail. Hannibal _regrets_ what he did. Will would never have believed he was capable of it.

 

“You betrayed me, Will. I cannot explain how I felt in those moments. I had given you something, a rare gift I had never shared.” _A mutual obsession._ “I had to hurt you.”

 

“You hurt yourself, too,” Will realises aloud.

 

“Of course.”

 

Will feels tears rolling down his cheeks; they are tears for what could have been. Hannibal's expression mirrors his own.

 

“You are in pain,” Hannibal observes.

 

Will glances down at his own torso. Beneath his jacket, the wound is stinging. He takes a deep breath.

 

“Are you going to apologise?” he asks darkly.

 

Hannibal gives him a sad smile and shakes his head. He takes a step towards Will, and then pauses. His expression changes, hardens.

 

“Frederick Chilton,” he says. “Those things Miss Lounds wrote were lies?”

 

“Yes,” Will says. He doesn't want Hannibal to know that Frederick is here in Paris. He doesn't want him to be perceived as a threat if this goes badly.

 

“Then please explain, Will, why it is that you smell so much like him.”

 

A sudden image of being naked in bed with Frederick pierces Will's imagination, and he can see Hannibal read it in his expression.

 

“Is this because I didn't touch you?” Hannibal asks, and his voice is quiet venom.

 

“It has nothing to do with you.”

 

“It has everything to do with me.” Hannibal shrugs, turns his back on Will and crosses to the desk beside the window, pouring himself a glass of wine. “I assume that you are not going to kill me. Not in a hotel room on the fourteenth floor. You would never escape the building.”

 

“A safe assumption,” Will replies. “But only if it is the case that I plan to try to escape.”

 

Hannibal finally looks surprised, placing the wine glass down again. “You are going to kill yourself.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will is not as certain as he was before. He has the feeling of hurtling towards the end point he imagined, of escaping the nightmare Hannibal has created in his life. He still wants to kill Hannibal- at the moment, he wants it more than he wants to fall into Hannibal's arms- but he is burningly aware of the fact that Frederick is in bed, asleep, expecting to wake up and look into Will's face.

 

Will wants to say goodbye. He has a weakness.

 

“I wish you had finished the job,” Will says, surprising himself, gesturing to his torso. His voice is thick with emotion.

 

“Merely ask, dear boy, and I will be happy to acquiesce.”

 

“I don't believe that,” Will says.

 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow but doesn't reply.

 

Will's face is wet with tears. He doesn't know how to feel. He is so fucked up. It hurts to be inside his own head. He tightens his finger on the trigger.

 

He can rid the world of Hannibal Lecter.

 

Except he can't.

 

He allows his arm to drop to his side. The gun falls to the floor, the sound muffled by the carpet.

 

Hannibal crosses to him, and Will doesn't resist when he rubs his palm over Will's wet cheek, reminding Will hideously of the night Abigail died. Hannibal's fingers are large, and firm, and hot.

 

They are comforting.

 

Will feels sick. He has been so manipulated that he finds comfort in the touch of the Chesapeake Ripper.

 

“Dear boy,” Hannibal says. His eyes are bright with tears, as they were before he stabbed Will.

 

He is as broken, and heartbroken, as Will.

 

Is that enough? Will isn't sure. He wants to punch Hannibal, wants to strangle him and watch him drown in his own blood. He wants to gut Hannibal with a knife. He wants to slit his throat.

 

Will thinks of Abigail. He thinks of her smile.

 

“Next time,” Will says shakily. “Next time, I will kill you.”

 

“I don't believe that.”

 

Will nods. He reaches up, covers Hannibal's fingers with his own, and pulls them gently from his face. “Believe it,” he says.

 

He turns and leaves the hotel room without picking up the gun. He feels numb as he goes back to the elevator. It is hard to resist the urge to turn around, but he does, even though he can feel Hannibal's eyes burning into his back.

 

Outside, it is starting to rain. Will walks back to their hotel, tears still flowing freely down his cheeks. He has failed. He couldn't do it.

 

Will knows he has been distracted by Hannibal's unusual demonstration of weakness, and he still feels the same unusual need to return to Frederick.

 

He is not ready to die without saying goodbye to him.

 

Will is fucked up, and he knows it.

 

When he reaches their hotel room, he shrugs off the wet coat and hangs it up before crossing to the bed. He sits down and trails his fingers across Frederick's shoulder, making him moan in his sleep.

 

Frederick Chilton's presence in his life has changed everything. Somehow, the annoying little psychiatrist has wormed his way into Will's life and his affections.

 

Would Will have been able to kill Hannibal if Frederick wasn't here?

 

He isn't sure. It would have been a lot easier to kill himself if Frederick wasn't waiting for him, he knows.

 

“Will?” Frederick opens his eyes, sitting up slightly. He takes in Will's wet hair and clothes. “What have you been doing? What's wrong?”

 

Will opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. He doesn't want to tell Frederick that he has failed.

 

“Will?” Frederick prompts. He sits up further, looking at Will's expression with a furrowed brow. Will wonders what his face is showing.

 

“I'm sorry,” Will says. “You... you followed me.” Will is reminded suddenly of Hannibal's excitement when he thought that Will had followed him out of affection- just as Frederick has followed Will.

 

“What are you talking about, Will? It's the middle of the night-”

 

Will kisses him, suddenly craving Chilton's closeness more than he can stand. He presses his tongue into Frederick's mouth, pulling him closer by sliding a hand around the back of his neck. He is breathless when he pulls back.

 

“I'm a fucked up mess, Frederick,” he says.

 

Frederick bites his lip. He considers Will, his opaque eyes wide. “You are,” he agrees, surprising Will. “But I already knew that, and I followed you anyway.”

 

Will is crying again. He is aware of the word _unconditional_ lurking in the edges of his awareness, and he knows he is undeserving.

 

“Shit,” he says, and Frederick pulls him into his arms.


	13. A Murder

Will wakes up late. He is alone in bed, but when he sits up he sees that Frederick is sitting on the sofa, surrounded by papers and chewing a pen thoughtfully.

 

“Morning,” Will says, and his throat is hoarse.

 

“Good afternoon, you mean,” Frederick retorts, peering at Will over his glasses.

 

Will grunts in reply. For a moment all he can see is Hannibal's face, and he forces down the bitter memories of the morning. He should tell Frederick what happened, but he decides not to. He feels shame and despair.

 

He rakes a hand through his hair. He has a headache.

 

“Will,” Frederick says, setting aside his pen, “can I ask you something?” He looks concerned and pale.

 

Will is quite sure that he isn't emotionally capable of dealing with whatever it is that is about to come, but he forces down the snappish response that rises in his throat, again aware of Hannibal's influence. He clears his throat and nods.

 

Frederick takes a deep breath. He places the papers aside and takes off his glasses. “This morning... why did you leave?”

 

Will looks at him, then looks away. He is aware that blood is rushing to his cheeks. He isn't ready to tell Frederick the truth. “Frederick...”

 

Frederick gives him a humourless smile. “Look, Will, I am sure that what happened last night is a great regret, but I assure you that there is no need to be embarrassed... I won't mention it again and things can just go back to-”

 

“Frederick!” Will blurts out. He has got entirely the wrong idea.

 

“Well, I know about how you feel about Hannibal, and I'm not... I mean, compared to him-”

 

“Don't,” Will says. “Don't compare yourself to him, Frederick.”

 

Hurt flashes nakedly across Frederick's face. His emotions are so strong they breath through Will's self-imposed barrier against Frederick's mind. Chilton thinks that Will wants Hannibal more than he wants Chilton; Chilton thinks that Will sees Hannibal as better.

 

“I... I didn't mean it like that.” Will claws at his face. His head hurts. “Just don't compare yourself to him. You're nothing like him, and believe me, that's a good thing.”

 

“Oh.” Frederick feels soothed, slightly, by those words. “So... last night?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Do you regret it?”

 

Will meets his gaze. “No. I absolutely do not regret it, Frederick- for some reason I don't quite understand, I have gone from strongly disliking almost everything about you... to actually liking you quite a lot.”

 

Frederick blinks. “Oh,” he says again. His eyes are round. He moves to stand up, to approach Will, but he stops. “What about Hannibal?”

 

Will wants to reach for some aspirin and shove them into his mouth, but he feels that would be inappropriate. “I told you last night. I wish I didn't feel the way I do.” He gives Frederick a sad smile. “That's the best I can do. I'm a fucked up mess, remember.”

 

Frederick smiles sadly back at him. “I followed you anyway.”

 

Will nods. He feels it is acceptable now to take his pills, and he washes them down with lukewarm water from the nightstand. He can feel the ghost of Hannibal's fingers on his cheek.

 

He closes his eyes for a second. The ghost fingers are replaced by actual fingers, Frederick's fingers, rubbing the beard on Will's face. Will opens his eyes and looks into the bright orbs looking back as Frederick sits down in front of him.

 

He is still wearing too much aftershave, but now it is a pleasant, familiar scent.

 

Will feels a strange sensation in the lower part of his face.

 

He realises he is smiling- really smiling.

 

Frederick looks a bit startled as well. He kisses Will, softly, gently, barely brushing his lips over Will's.

 

Will is loved by this man. It hits him hard, warm, a comforting wave.

 

His phone rings. The noise cuts through him like a knife, reminding him of the painful, still-healing wound on his torso.

 

He is terrified it is Hannibal.

 

“Hello?” he answers, unable to look away from Frederick. He wants to find comfort in the face he is growing to know so well.

 

“Will, it's Freddie. I don't know if you've seen but I've just received word- there's been a murder in Paris.”

 

Will goes cold. “Is it-?”

 

“You tell me.”

 

She gives him an address, and he realises it is the hotel he visited Hannibal at.

 

“It's him,” he says.

 

“Get over there. Get some photos. Find him.”

 

Will realises that Freddie is another person he has let down by not killing Hannibal when he had the chance, Freddie and whoever the latest victim is.

 

He pulls on some clothes, explaining to Frederick as he does that there has been a body found.

 

“How do you know it's Hannibal?” Frederick asks, as they head downstairs. He is pale and confused; he isn't yet used to the shifts from normality to murder investigation that seem to fill Will Graham's life.

 

Will hesitates. He could lie, but he doesn't want to. This man loves him, and deserves better. “You aren't going to like this,” he warns, as they head out onto the street.

 

“There's a surprise.”

 

“Hannibal called me this morning. I worked out where he's been staying, and I went over there. It's the hotel where the body was found.”

 

There is a pause. They are walking quickly through the busy streets now, as quickly as they can with Frederick leaning on his cane.

 

“Will,” Frederick says tentatively.

 

Will waits for him to speak.

 

“Did you kill Hannibal Lecter?”

 

They are nearing the Arc de Triomphe. Will swallows, glances at Frederick. Frederick isn't looking at Will. His face is closed, and Will resists the urge to poke around in his head.

 

“No,” Will admits. “I went there to kill him.”

 

He hears Frederick breathe in sharply. “Then what happened, Will?”

 

Something about his tone prickles Will. “Are you asking if I slept with him? Or if I killed somebody with him? Or both?”

 

There is no reply.

 

“Fuck, Frederick,” Will snaps. “I did neither.”

 

There is still no reply.

 

“Frederick, I didn't kill him because of you.”

 

They are outside the hotel. There is police tape and a huge crowd. Will turns to Frederick and takes his hand. He stares at him. He needs his trust; it is unspeakably important to him. Frederick Chilton loves him, for some reason.

 

“I could have done it,” Will says. “But I knew I couldn't escape the hotel. I wanted to see you again.”

 

Frederick hesitates. “I thought you were going to...”

 

“I was. I am. I don't know.”

 

Frederick nods. He squeezes Will's fingers.

 

They turn to the hotel. Will isn't used to being outside of crime scenes. They are at the edge of the crowd. He wonders how they can get inside.

 

Nothing has changed. His entire life is murder and death. His entire life is Hannibal.

 

“Monsieur Graham?”

 

He turns at the sound of his name. A policewoman is standing behind him. She has short coppery hair and an abundance of freckles that give her a youthful look. She is looking at Will with an expression that is very close to fear.

 

He supposes he was the Chesapeake Ripper, at least for a while.

 

He isn't sure how she knows who he is, though. Will Graham isn't in this country officially. Will is here as William Gray. He supposes the grizzly story of the Chesapeake Ripper might have travelled around the world, but he doesn't expect his face to be recognisable here.

 

“I am a Gardien de la Paix- Alix Dupont.”

 

Will blinks at her from behind his glasses. “How do you know who I am?”

 

She has bright, intelligent hazel eyes. “I was told to watch out for you,” she says. Her accent is beautiful, almost musical. “They want you inside.”

 

“Who told you to watch out for me? Why?”

 

She ignores his questions and indicates that he is expected to follow her. Chilton raises an eyebrow at him and they walk after her, through the thick crowd.

 

They duck under the police tape, and Will experiences the familiar separation from the relative safety and innocence of the world outside the barrier.

 

At least Frederick is with him.

 

Police officers and men in suits stare at him as he walks through. They part, revealing a familiar broad figure facing away from Will.

 

The man turns to face him and offers him a grim smile.

 

“Hello, Will,” he says.

 

“Jack,” Will breathes.


	14. Trust

The body belongs to Bedelia du Maurier. Jack stands back with Frederick as Will enters room 1477, the room next door to Hannibal's.

 

The murder isn't in Hannibal's typical style. There is no display, no presentation. From the bruising around her neck, it is reasonably obvious how she died. She is lying on the bed, her slender frame wrapped in a white silk robe.

 

Will is reluctant to let the pendulum swing, especially with Jack and Frederick watching. Jack hasn't explained why he is here. Will has a distinct feel of _wrongness._

 

“She died at about four o'clock this morning,” comes another voice behind him, and he doesn't have to turn to recognise that it is Brian Zeller.

 

Four o'clock. It clicks for Will.

 

“He killed her because he was frustrated and annoyed, a rare slip of his mask,” he says.

 

“Why was he annoyed?” Jack asks.

 

Will knows the answer but feels reluctant to give it. He sighs. “He was reading the article Freddie Lounds published about Chilton and I living together.”

 

There is a heavy pause.

 

“Are you saying he killed her because he was jealous of your fake relationship with Frederick Chilton?” Jack asks. Frederick must throw him a dark glance, because Jack adds, “Sorry, Doctor Chilton.”

 

“He lost his temper,” Will says, and he is as surprised as the rest of them.

 

Hannibal had already killed Bedelia when Will turned up.

 

Another murder that Will was at least partially responsible for. He covers his face with his hands and exhales heavily.

 

Jack is waiting for him to continue speaking. Will doesn't have to look at him to feel the impatience washing over him in waves.

 

“He phoned me last night to ask me about it. It was after he had killed her.”

 

“You didn't know about it?” Jack asks.

 

“Of course not,” Will says automatically, but of course there is no _of course_ when talking about his bizarre relationship with Hannibal Lecter. Nobody trusts him. He thinks it is probably justified.

 

“Where has he gone?” Jack wonders aloud.

 

“We found a gun in his room,” Alix Dupont offers.

 

Will cringes. “Hannibal Lecter prefers to get more intimate with his victims than a gun allows. It isn't his.”

 

“Then who-? Damn it, Will!” Jack snaps, glaring at him, as it slots into place. “Tell me you weren't here last night. Tell me you didn't know where Hannibal Lecter was and didn't turn him into the police.”

 

Will stares at his shoes.

 

Jack gives a frustrated growl. “Dupont, take Mr Graham to my car.”

 

Will feels a firm hand on his arm and looks into the woman's hazel eyes. He wrenches his arm away from her but allows her to lead him out of the room. As he passes Frederick, he tries to smile at him, but he feels that his face twists in a horrible way. Frederick looks unhappy, and he raises an eyebrow at Will.

 

Dupont doesn't speak to Will until they are both sitting on soft leather seats in the back of a black Mercedes.

 

“What is he like?” she asks.

 

He glances at her. He is impressed by her cold, unemotional dedication to her duty; this is a young woman trying to be taken seriously.

 

“Hannibal Lecter?”

 

“Oui.”

 

“He is a monster,” Will says emphatically.

 

“Then what does that make you?” she asks.

 

He doesn't answer. He has asked himself this question hundreds of times and has yet to find a satisfactory answer. He is a monster, a victim, or some unfortunate combination of the two; deep within him there lurks a darkness. It is tempting to believe that Hannibal planted it there, but the truth is that he merely encouraged it out of hiding.

 

Will thinks of the dead woman upstairs, her pretty pale throat wreathed in purple bruises. Disturbingly, Will wishes he had witnessed Hannibal's anger- even at his most terrible, Hannibal had never seemed aggressively angry, preferring most often the cold, calm variety.

 

There is something gratifying in knowing that he drove Hannibal to such feelings.

 

Jack climbs into the front of the car without speaking. Another uniformed officer gets in and starts the car.

 

“Where are we going?” Will asks, as they pull away. He is aware that he is being taken away from Frederick Chilton, and he doesn't like it.

 

“We need to talk,” Jack says grimly.

 

“Are you arresting me?”

 

“No,” Jack replies. “Should I be?”

 

Will remembers Frederick's doubts. His own words echo in his head.  _Are you asking if I slept with him? Or if I killed somebody with him? Or both?_ “She was dead when I got there, Jack. I didn't see the body.”

 

“Would it have changed your decision to not alert the authorities if you _had_ seen the body?”

 

Will sighs. “I don't know.”

 

The car pulls up in front of a police station. Dupont climbs out nimbly and scuttles around to open the door for Will, again placing her hand on his arm. He doesn't even bother trying to shake it off now.

 

They end up in a small, cramped office which has clearly stood empty for a long time before its current use. It smells of coffee and stale sweat. Jack sits down behind the paper-laden desk and Dupont pulls out the chair opposite for Will to sit down on.

 

He sees his own photograph pinned to a board crowded with papers and photographs. Hannibal's handsome face looks back at him.

 

“How did you know I was here?” he asks.

 

Jack sighs. He leans forward and frowns. “Margot Verger's information came from me. I told her to pass it on to you.”

 

Will suddenly _sees_ , and he moves back from Jack. “You told her to offer me a chance to come here because you didn't trust me.”

 

Jack nods. “She got her information from me.”

 

Will doesn't feel surprised, or betrayed. He feels numb. He suddenly wants to be out of this office, away from Jack and back with Frederick. “You didn't want me to be officially involved with the case.”

 

“No.” Jack pauses. “I'm sorry, Will.”

 

Will just shrugs. The back of his neck is unpleasantly damp with sweat. He can feel Dupont's eyes burning into the back of his head and wonders why she is here.

 

“The situation has changed,” Jack says. “Hannibal is killing again. He'll be on the move now, leaving this place. We need your help.”

 

Will considers. Catching Hannibal was- _is_ , he corrects himself- everything to him. The disappointment he tasted when Jack refused to allow him to help still feels raw and painful. Hannibal is a killer, and Will has a duty to stop him.

 

This is all muddled up in his own feelings, both for Hannibal and for Frederick Chilton. His head hurts, and he isn't sure how much more of this he can take.

 

“I'll help,” Will says. “I don't want to be officially involved, though.”

 

Jack nods. “All things considered, that's probably for the best.”

 

“Don't you trust me, Jack?” Will asks humourlessly.

 

Jack sighs. “Would you?”

 

“I don't trust myself,” Will says. “That's the truth.”

 

Jack looks at him for a long moment. Will sees himself for a moment through Jack's eyes, and he doesn't like the cold, calculating, unfeeling creature he sees.

 

“Where do you think he'll go?” Jack asks, and it is clear to Will that he hasn't even considered the possibility of Will refusing to help.

 

“He won't leave the city,” Will replies, and he _knows_ this is true. “He wants me. He wants to possess me, hurt me.”

 

“You are sure of this?” Alix Dupont asks.

 

Will thinks of Hannibal's knife sliding inside of him, tearing him open; he remembers the white hot pain he felt as he gripped Hannibal's shirt and felt no desire to fight him off. He thinks of the tear that trailed down Hannibal's cheek as they regarded each other honestly.

 

Love and hatred well up inside of him.

 

Will has to get Frederick Chilton out of Paris. This is a dangerous place for him now.

 

“I'm sure,” Will says. “I'm going back to the hotel now. Call me if you need me.”

 

“But Will-” Jack begins, standing up as Will heads quickly for the door.

 

“Talk to you later, Jack,” Will says, and it is freeing to walk away from him.

 

He takes a cab back to the hotel. Sitting in the back, he gives into his feelings, thinking about Bedelia Du Maurier's lifeless body. He is cold and vindicated; he is glad that Hannibal killed someone because he was furiously jealous over Will. Will hates himself. He wishes he killed Hannibal last night- he is glad he did not.

 

He is balling his hands into fists, the nails biting into his palms.

 

He is a sick product of Hannibal's manipulations.

 

He enters the hotel in a haze and somehow makes it to their room, opening it to find Frederick making some notes on the sofa. Frederick looks up and smiles at him.

 

“Shit,” says Will, and his voice breaks. Tears are rolling down his cheeks.

 

The smile disappears from Frederick's face. “What happened?”

 

Will is still silently crying as Frederick wraps his arms around him. “Hannibal,” Will whimpers into Frederick's shoulder. “It's never going to get better, is it?”


	15. Revealing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in one day. You lucky devils.

Frederick leads Will to the bed. Will has his hands curled around Frederick's shoulders, his soft white shirt balled in his fingers. He is terrified of letting go.

 

"Will, has something happened? What did Jack say?"

 

Frederick is sitting on the bed with him, not moving away. He is solidly, comfortingly _here_.

 

Will is embarrassed about crying, but he can't stop. "He... I'm helping. Unofficially."

 

"Is that what you want?" Frederick asks.

 

The question amazes Will. When was the last time anyone asked him what he  _wants_ ? He stares at Frederick with wide eyes. An emotion is welling up inside his chest, and he knows what it is. He doesn't understand how it can be there.

 

"Will?" prompts Frederick.

 

Will is kissing him, pulling Frederick down on top of him, threading his fingers into soft hair. Frederick kisses back, and it tastes of Will's tears.

 

When Frederick moves his mouth away, Will strokes his cheek. In the past few days, the bright eyes that are above him have been the nicest thing he has seen. He doesn't know how to say this, so he offers Frederick the best he has. "You have to leave Paris, Frederick."

 

Frederick frowns. He looks hurt. "What?"

 

"Hannibal wants to hurt me. He's jealous of you. He will kill you." Will sees that Frederick doesn't look as fazed by this as he would expect. What has happened to the cowardly Chilton he knows? "It will be slow. He won't be kind, Frederick."

 

There is a pause. Will sees Frederick's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows hard. He has paled a little, although not as much as he should have done. "I'm not leaving," he says.

 

"Frederick-"

 

"You  _need_ me," Frederick says, and his voice is thick with emotion. His eyes are bright, and fierce. "You need me, Will. Nobody else has ever needed me."

 

"I never said I needed you," Will replies gently.

 

A tear rolls down Frederick's cheek. It clings to his beard. "No, you didn't. But you were going to kill yourself, Will- you were going to kill Hannibal and kill yourself, and you didn't. Because of me."

 

"I don't think most people will be pleased that Hannibal and I are still in the world."

 

"Well,  _I_ am." Frederick's hair is sticking up. He looks like he wants to kill Will himself. "Not Hannibal. But if the cost of his death is losing you..."

 

"Frederick," Will soothes, and he kisses him again.

 

It is gentle and tender; Frederick moans softly into Will's mouth as they roll over, Will pressing him into the mattress and savouring the feeling of him beneath him. He is reminded of the morning the Vergers came, and Frederick woke him up. Now the Chilton trapped beneath him in bed is not a cold, aloof stranger he doesn't like.

 

Will trails kisses down his chin, enjoying the texture of Frederick's beard against his lips. Frederick hums contentedly when Will's mouth brushes over the hot, smooth skin of his throat, then gasps when Will dips his tongue out and licks him.

 

Will is aroused, and he can feel that Frederick is too.

 

"Frederick... I want to..." The words leave him in a burning rush, and Frederick shivers.

 

"Yes," he says.

 

Clothes are peeled away and the two men are naked together once more. Frederick looks lovely to him, eyes wide and nervous, nibbling nervously on his lower lip. Will kisses it before kissing down Frederick's torso. He fulfils his earlier desire to drag his tongue down the scar. It feels silky beneath his mouth.

 

Will takes Frederick into his mouth slowly, enjoying the strangled cry the psychiatrist gives as Will trails his tongue around the tip of him. He tastes salty and warm. Will wraps one hand around the base. He slides the fingers of the other one into his mouth briefly then continues to suck Frederick, who is whimpering.

 

Gently, Will slides a finger inside of Frederick, who shudders at the contact.

 

"Will," Frederick gasps. "Please..."

 

Will pushes another finger inside. He is still working Frederick with his mouth, and when he looks up he sees that the smaller man has his head thrown back, eyes shut, hands gripping the sheets.

 

Reluctantly, slowly, Will pulls his mouth away, and moves up Frederick, so that they can kiss. Frederick squeaks as he tastes himself. Will positions himself so that his tip is pressing against Frederick, ready to enter him.

 

"Frederick," Will manages to say. He still has one hand wrapped around Frederick's cock. "Do you... are you sure...?"

 

"Yes."

 

Will pushes into him. Frederick arches his back at the movement, his fingernails clawing at Will's shoulders. Will finds himself making soft, soothing noises and kissing Frederick's hair. Slowly, the psychiatrist relaxes, and Will starts to push in and out. Frederick is tight, and Will moans his name.

 

Frederick has pressed his face against Will's shoulder, and he's mouthing words against it. Will is still stroking him, and he senses that the good doctor is a little overwhelmed by the sensations.

 

Will is close when Frederick finishes in his hand.

 

"I love you," Frederick cries out against his shoulder.

 

Even though the words are shouted into his shoulder, they are crystal clear, and they burn Will. He is loved.

 

"Frederick," he chokes, as he is overwhelmed by pleasure.

 

Afterwards, they lie together. Will has pulled out of Frederick but otherwise they haven't moved. They are hot and sweaty. Frederick is still hiding his face. Will feels like he should talk to him about what has been said, but he isn't sure where to begin.

 

He already knew that Frederick loves him. However, now that it has been said, it is a real thing that has to be dealt with. Will has a huge feeling growing within him and he knows that he is falling in love with Frederick Chilton. It would be easy to offer him those words.

 

But it wouldn't be right. He is still Hannibal's.

 

"You have to leave," Will says finally. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

 

Frederick pushes him back slightly, so that they are looking at each other. His cheeks are flushed. "No," he says simply.

 

"Damn it, Frederick-"

 

"Will, I am absolutely terrified of Hannibal." Frederick shuffles out from underneath him, and they both lie down facing each other. "Absolutely terrified. But I'm more afraid of leaving you."

 

"Why?" Will asks.

 

"Selfish reasons. I love you." The words repeated outside of the context of sex make Will blush, and he ducks his face into the pillow. Frederick pushes his fingers through Will's damp curls. "I don't expect you to say it back. I know you care about me when you thought you couldn't care about anything other than Hannibal Lecter, and for now it's enough."

 

"We talked about this," Will mutters. "There isn't an  _after_ for me."

 

Frederick takes a deep breath. With his hair ruffled from sex, he looks younger. "There could be. We could have a life together, Will."

 

Will sees it clearly: teaching during the day, driving home to a small yet comfortable house filled with dogs, and preparing dinner for Frederick before he arrives home. They would share soft kisses over dinner, laughing over wine.

 

He wants it so badly that his bones ache.

 

He turns his face and kisses Frederick's fingers. "I'd like that," he says, and is aware he is cutting close to things he can't say. "But it definitely won't happen if you're dead, Frederick."

 

Frederick sighs. There is a stubborn glint in his eyes that Will has seen there before. "Stop it, Will," he says gently, and he leans forward and kisses Will softly on the mouth.

 

"Stop what?"

 

"Stop trying to send me away."

 

"I'm trying to save your life, Doctor Chilton," Will says, exasperated.

 

Frederick Chilton smiles at him. It is a wicked grin. "I'm trying to save yours, Mr Graham."

 

Will gives in and smiles back. "Are you offering as my one-time psychiatrist?"

 

"If we're both honest, I was never particularly successful, was I?"

 

"Is it because you wanted me to do what I just did to you?" Will asks.

 

Finally, it is Frederick's turn to blush. He turns his face away and Will gives a triumphant bark of laughter.

 

"I love you," Will says.

 

The words startle Frederick as much as they startle Will, and his eyes snap back to Will's. "Do you mean that?"

 

Will's heart is racing. It is many years since he has said those words. He means them. It is terrifying and goes against his plan. "I love you," he repeats.

 

Frederick kisses him.


	16. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, chickens. I was going to upload a chapter before I went on holiday but I really struggled with it. I think there's at least another three chapters to go after this one and I promise I will update soon.

Will wakes up when Frederick shuffles away. He is very aware of the loss of him, and he grumbles sleepily.

  
  


"I'm going to have a shower," Frederick tells him gently, kissing his forehead.

  
  


Will mumbles his sleepy, grumpy assent and drifts back to sleep.

  
  


He wakes up to an entirely different pair of lips on his forehead.

  
  


"If he leaves the bathroom, I will kill him." The threat, purred against Will's skin in Hannibal's thick accent, makes Will snap back to reality quickly.

  
  


He can hear the shower running. There is faint, pinkish light coming in the window. It is almost morning.

  
  


Hannibal is kneeling on the bed beside him, and Will is overwhelmingly aware of the scent and warm presence of him. His mouth is still pressing into Will’s forehead. Will stays very still, an icy fear wrapping around his stomach. He is absolutely at a disadvantage.

  
  


Hannibal knows this; Will can sense the excitement pouring off him.

  
  


“What do you want?” Will asks, the words coming out in a choked whisper that embarrasses him.

  
  


Hannibal drags his lips teasingly over Will’s flesh, and to Will’s shame, he shudders. Hannibal chuckles. “You are mine, Will Graham.”

  
  


"Do what you need to do to me, but leave Frederick out of this." Will pauses. "Please."

  
  


“Do you believe that dear Doctor Chilton would so selflessly give his life for yours, beloved?”

  
  


Will closes his eyes briefly. He hears Frederick’s words in his head, sees his determined eyes blazing.  _ I’m not leaving. Stop it, Will. Stop trying to send me away. _

  
  


"Do you suppose I'm here to finish the job, dear boy?" Hannibal murmurs. He drags his lips slowly, obscenely down to Will's own.

  
  


Will lies still as Hannibal's lips ghost over his mouth; it isn't a kiss. There is no affection or love in the gesture. Hannibal is teasing him, marking him. Will has long wanted to kiss Hannibal but now the other man's taste is wrong.

  
  


He is scared to move; he doesn't want to give into the still flickering desire to turn the touch into a kiss. He doesn't want Hannibal to kill him.

 

Hannibal draws back slightly. His breath is hot on Will’s face, his eyes alight with menace and power. Will notices that he is wearing a black t-shirt and jeans; he isn’t here to kill anyone. He doesn’t find the thought as comforting as it should be.

  
  


“I was so happy when you came to see me, Will.” The words are a burning confession, yet another insight into Hannibal that nobody else has been privileged enough to receive. “You, standing there, your eyes filled with vengeance, with understanding... you pointing that gun at my head. Despite everything, Will, you belong with me.”

  
  


“Broken together,” Will replies gently. His heart is thudding in his chest. He can hear Frederick singing quietly in the shower. Will is naked, vulnerable, and the only weapon he has here are his words. “Is that what you want for me, Hannibal?”

  
  


“I am a selfish creature,” Hannibal murmurs. “I have hurt you before to get what I wanted. I feel some regret for those actions... but I would do them again.”

  
  


“Are you here to hurt me?” Will asks.

  
  


“I said I would kill you if you asked it of me.” Hannibal sighs. He is a heavy weight on Will, all hard edges and firm muscle. Will has dreamed of this contact for so long, and now that it is happening it is bitter and unwanted. “I have considered those words since we met at my hotel room. I don't want to hurt you.”

  
  


Will frowns up at him before a humourless smile quirks his face. “You've done such a good job of that so far, Doctor Lecter.”

  
  


“I am afraid I must hurt you once more,” Hannibal says, and Will's chest tightens painfully in fear. “I have something to show you.”

  
  


“Don't,” Will murmurs. “Please.”

  
  


“You fancy yourself in love with Frederick Chilton,” Hannibal says softly, ignoring Will. “You believe that he is in love with you.”

  
  


“He is,” Will says, the words snarled through clenched teeth.

  
  


Hannibal purrs  lightly in his throat, and it takes Will a second to understand he is laughing. “He's  _ studying _ you, dear boy. He has been fascinated with you since the first time you met, and he is going to use you to finally carve some success for himself in the psychiatry field.”

  
  


Will has always avoided looking too closely into Frederick's head. It is conceivable that the good doctor could have lied to him.  _ We can move on together. _ Frederick's words from their first night in his house ground him. For whatever reason, Chilton loves Will. He knows it.

  
  


Hannibal lifts something from the bed, something Will hadn't even noticed. It is a brown paper file. He recognises his own name written on the front in neat, awkwardly precise handwriting that can only belong to Frederick. The stamp from the Baltimore hospital is beneath his name.

  
  


“Where did you get that?” Will asks, and his throat is dry.

  
  


“Frederick Chilton's suitcase. As you have deduced, it is your file from your time in Frederick's... ah... care. However, there are some new notes in there. I encourage you to read it. Some of his observations on your feelings towards me are very interesting indeed.”

  
  


“Fuck you, Hannibal,” Will says, because he can see that Hannibal is telling the truth. He feels a sadness that is raw and painful. He felt it once before, when Hannibal stabbed him. Heartbreak.

  
  


Hannibal kisses him. It is a chaste press of lips against Will's mouth, but it is firm and fiery.

  
  


“I will be waiting when you decide to leave him,” Hannibal says.

  
  


“I'm here to kill you,” Will says, the words hollow and distant, as Hannibal slides gracefully from the bed.

  
  


Hannibal looks at him for a long time. The words that he says soothe Will- Will knows they shouldn't. He hates himself for it. “I forgive you,” Hannibal says.

  
  


Then he leaves, shutting the door gently behind him. Will is left in bed, alone and with a file of evidence that things aren't what he wanted to believe.

  
  


His fingers trail the edges of the file. He is intrigued and disgusted. Nervously, he opens the file and flicks to the back. The most recent notes are handwritten on ivory paper.

  
  


_ Will talks about wanting to kill himself. His obsession with HL is so great that he cannot imagine living after his death. _

  
  


_ Will believes himself unworthy of affection. _

  
  


Will laughs. It is bitter.

  
  


He is crying when Chilton emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. Chilton smiles at him, then the smile fades when he sees Will's tears and the folder open on his lap.

  
  


“Will-” he says, panic lacing his voice.

  
  


“I told you not to study me. You said you wanted to be my friend.”

  
  


“I'm sorry-”

  
  


“You said you loved me.”

  
  


“I do, Will, I do love you!”

  
  


Will is climbing out of bed, reaching for his clothes. He is aware that Chilton is standing behind him, aware that he is speaking, but he can't hear him.

  
  


Frederick reaches out and grabs his arm. Will reacts instinctively, shoving him roughly away. He has to get out of here, has to get away from the pounding in his head.

  
  


He throws his coat on over his clothes and stumbles out of the room.

  
  


He isn't sure why he is so surprised. His whole life has been this; fascinating and exciting the doctors, his mind probed and investigated until he no longer feels like a person but an interesting experiment. Alana has always seen him as more than this, and that is why he has always held her in such high regard.

  
  


Will has believed over the past few days that Frederick was seeing him as person.

  
  


Hannibal has always seen him as an experiment, but in a way wildly different to how others have seen him.

  
  


Hannibal is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles fondly, proudly, at Will.


	17. The Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt exceptionally guilty about the last chapter and wrote this one in less than an hour. It doesn't resolve the issues of the last chapter entirely, but hopefully helps.

They drive north in a rented car. Will wishes he remembered to pick up his phone. He sits in vaguely stunned silence, feeling like he is dreaming.

 

He misses Frederick Chilton already. Betrayal and shock still pound through him, but he believes that Frederick loves him. However, it's too late to go back. He has made his decision and he is going to follow through with it.

 

He glances over at Hannibal. His long fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the barest ghost of a touch giving him absolute control.

 

“Where are we going?” Will asks.

 

“England,” Hannibal replies. “Possibly Scotland. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere quiet.”

 

“Of course.” Will rakes a hand through his hair. He really needs a shower. “Might I ask the nature of our arrangement?”

 

Hannibal glances at him. Will sees him swallow.

 

“A loaded question, Will. Tell me, what would you like my answer to be?”

 

Will hesitates. He is remembering the taste of Frederick's mouth, and he forces the memory away. “I described our relationship as a mutual overwhelming obsession,” he says.

 

Hannibal smiles. “It certainly is that.”

 

He pulls into the small car park of a roadside café and turns the engine off. The silence is overwhelming. Will is aware of Hannibal's eyes burning into him, and he can't bring himself to meet his gaze. Hannibal's fingers trail across his stubbly jaw before firmly turning his face.

 

When their eyes finally meet, Will feels almost sick with nervousness, and he hates himself for it.

 

“You are remarkable, Will Graham,” Hannibal says. “You are certainly an overwhelming obsession; however, you are surely aware that you are more than that.”

 

Will thinks he would have killed to hear those words before- literally, perhaps. Everything is a mess. He is so fucked up. He blinks, doesn't reply.

 

“I have a gift for you,” Hannibal says.

 

Will's suspicious are aroused, and he lowers his eyebrows. Hannibal merely chuckles and moves back, climbing out of the car.

 

Will follows him into the cafe. He can only hear French, and he is slightly uncomfortable in this sea of the unknown as he allows Hannibal to steer him to a booth. Hannibal sits down opposite him, smiles confidently at him, and orders two coffees from their young waitress.

 

Hannibal is so handsome. Will is struck by it, watching the charming crease around his eyes as he smiles up at the waitress. It is easy to see how everyone was fooled by this man. Will remembers watching him over the first meal they shared, the first few tentative smiles, the first nervous steps into friendship.

 

He wishes everything was different.

 

“Did you want to kill Frederick Chilton when you found out he had betrayed you?”

 

The question startles Will. He leans back. “No,” he replies honestly. “Murdering your loved ones is how you deal with betrayal, not me.”

 

“We are not as dissimilar as you would like to believe, dear boy.”

 

Will thinks tenderly of Frederick Chilton. Will knows he is different to Hannibal. He can love, purely and simply. He knows that now.

 

He has come with Hannibal to kill him. He imagines gutting him as he smiles sweetly at him, imagines how delicious revenge is going to finally taste. “Perhaps not,” he concedes politely.

 

“There is something I wish to tell you,” Hannibal says. “My gift to you.”

 

The waitress comes over with their coffees. It is a different waitress to the one who first served them, and Will realises it is Alix Dupont. His polite smile freezes on his face.

 

Hannibal thanks her and turns back to Will. She moves away. Will knows he needs to speak to her.

 

“I love you,” Hannibal says.

 

Will finds that the words mean nothing.

 

He has never been so surprised in his life. He is thinking about Frederick, who definitely owes him an explanation but who does, absolutely, love Will. He thinks of Abigail. He thinks of Alana.

 

His fingers are steady as he takes a sip of coffee. He smiles at Hannibal but inside he knows he is free.

 

Will makes a polite excuse and goes to the bathroom. He runs the cold tap and splashes his face with the water.

 

Alix Dupont follows him in.

 

“How did you know we would stop here?” Will asks, glancing at her in the mirror. “I don't even think he knew.”

 

“He knew,” she replies, her hazel eyes piercing. “Someone you know works here.”

 

Will is surprised, and he turns to face her. “What? Who?”

 

She shakes her head at him, frowning, one hand reaching up to scrunch her coppery hair. “They told me you were one of the best,” she says, the accent making even the harsh words sound playful. “Matthew Brown works here. He has done for several days.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

Dupont glances at the door. “I will make this quick, so try to keep up, Graham. Once it was obvious that Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper, Brown was only wanted on one charge- the attempted murder of Hannibal Lecter himself. Once we knew Lecter was in France, we planted Brown here as bait.”

 

“You planted a known killer in a coffee shop?” Will says, his voice heavy with irony.

 

Dupont frowns. “He knows he is here to persuade the judges to give him a more lenient sentence.” She hesitates. “I believe Jack Crawford is facing some... trouble over the decision.”

 

“And Hannibal has brought me here because he wants me to kill Brown,” Will says, the realisation hitting him with comforting finality.

 

“ _Oui_.”

 

Will laughs without humour. Of course Hannibal wants him to murder the man Will had betrayed him with- the man Will had asked to kill Hannibal.

 

“I must ask you,” Dupont says, “did you follow Hannibal to catch him? Or were you joining him again?”

 

Will supposes he deserves the doubt. “I want to kill him,” he says. “I don't even want him caught. I want to kill him myself.”

 

Dupont frowns, but she nods.

 

“How did you know we had left?”

 

“Doctor Chilton called Jack Crawford. He was... upset.”

 

Of course he was. Will feels guilty, even though he is still annoyed at Frederick. “Where is he?” he asks.

 

“Back in Paris, I believe,” Dupont replies.

 

Good. Safe. Will hopes they get to speak again. He doesn't know how this is going to end.

 

The door swings open, and they both tense. The original waitress sticks her head in, her eyes wide.

 

“He is gone,” she says.

 

“Shit.” Will utters the word as they dash back into the café.

 

Hannibal is gone. The coffees are abandoned on the table.

 

Will feels sick.

 

“Where will he go?” Dupont asks.

 

“Frederick,” Will says. “He'll go to Frederick.” The words are panicked. Despite everything, despite the uncertainty he has about Frederick, he knows he loves him. The thought of anything happening to him is too much for Will to stand.

 

They rush out to her car. She has started the engine and sped out on to the road before Will has even shut his door. She is efficient and clever. He tries to feel reassured by this.

 

She makes a phone call in fluent French, the words delivered sharply. Then she calls Jack, and speaks in English. She repeats what has happened, then gives Will the phone.

 

“Where's Frederick?” Will asks, and the words come out sounding pathetic.

 

“The bad news is I don't know,” Jack says. “The good news is Hannibal doesn't either.”

 

Will groans.

 

They speed back to Paris. Will is a ball of nervous energy. He hates feeling out of control. He picks at his fingers, tugs at his hair. Dupont wisely does not comment.

 

Her phone rings again. She answers, then passes it to Will. “It is for you.”

 

“Hello?” Will says, and for one horrible minute he is convinced he will hear Hannibal.

 

“Will, what the fuck are you doing?” It is Freddie Lounds. Will has never believed he would ever be happy to hear her voice, but he is. “I just had Frederick on the phone _crying_ of all things, saying that you've left him without taking your phone and he's scared he's lost you.”

 

“He hasn't,” Will says, and he is gripping the phone very tightly.

 

“I called Jack Crawford and he gave me this number to ring. I don't even want you to tell me why you're with some French woman and not with Frederick Chilton.”

 

Will almost laughs. “Freddie, I need you to call Frederick back and tell him that Hannibal is after him. Find out where he is, tell Jack. I'm on my way back but he is in danger.”

 

There is a pause. “Fuck. Good luck, Will.”

 

“Thanks. Bye, Freddie.”

 

“Be careful.”


	18. Reunion

Will is questioned by Jack when they arrive back in Paris, but his mind isn't in the interview room, and Jack senses that. With a long-suffering sigh, he tells Will that they have moved Frederick to another hotel.

 

Will takes a cab to it. There is no police presence in the street, but two uniformed officers stand discretely outside the bedroom door. Will nods at them and they stand aside to allow him to enter.

 

The feeling that washes over Will as he stares at Frederick, sitting on the bed with his face scrunched up as he stares at his laptop, is one of intense stupidity. He looks at his small, loving, strange little doctor and feels ridiculous for ever leaving.

 

He needs to know, though. He has to hear the explanation. His face twists into a firm frown.

 

Frederick looks up from his laptop with fear etched onto his face; it fades when he sees it is Will, but it quickly returns when he sees the expression on Will's face.

 

“Will-” he says, standing up.

 

Will crosses to him and pushes him against the wall with ease, not bothering to be gentle. He glares down at him. He is impossibly glad to see Frederick, but he isn't ready to show that.

 

“Explain,” he growls.

 

Frederick squeaks nervously, and pushes experimentally against Will's grip. “I-”

 

“I trusted you. I love you. I know you love me.” The emotional words are growled against Frederick's throat. “So I want you to explain.”

 

“I wasn't studying you. Not... not how it looks.”

 

“It looks bad, Frederick. New notes in my folder...”

 

“I'm trying to _help_ you.” The words are whimpered out, and they have the taste of the truth. “I wasn't going to do anything with the notes, I swear. I was organising my ideas... it's how I do things. It's what I'm used to. Damn it, Will-”

 

Will believes him. He is free of Hannibal, free of Hannibal's voice in his ear, free of his suspicions about Frederick. He draws back slightly and looks into Chilton's flushed face and narrowed eyes.

 

“You promise?” Will asks quietly. “You swear?”

 

“I would do anything for you. I'm a selfish person, you know that, but I wouldn't risk my life just for my career. I would risk it for you, though.”

 

Doubt disappears as Will kisses Frederick.

 

Frederick is annoyed with his entrance and it takes him a moment to respond but soon their lips are working furiously. Will groans as Frederick's hands grab at his hair with more force than is strictly necessary.

 

“Don't leave me again,” Frederick breathes as their lips come apart.

 

“I'm sorry. Hannibal came and-”

 

“They were worried you had left with him.” Frederick's eyes are wide and bright.

 

“No.”

 

“I said that you wouldn't.”

 

Will smiles. There is a hot feeling behind his eyes. Jack Crawford doesn't trust him, Alana will never trust him again, but the man who used to be his psychiatrist and captor trusts him fully. “I love you,” he says.

 

He still has Frederick pinned against the wall, and they both seem to become aware of it at the same moment.

 

Frederick pushes at him, trying to get free, and there is real intent in the motion. He isn't as strong as Will, but Will releases him and is surprised when the smaller man tackles him to the bed roughly. He finds himself looking up into Frederick's cloudy eyes.

 

“I want you to promise me something,” Frederick says. “You never believe Hannibal when it comes to me again. You never believe _anyone_ when it comes to me. You fucking ask me and I'll tell you.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Will says. Frederick is straddling him and it is hard to concentrate.

 

“Promise me, William Graham, or I swear to god-”

 

Will laughs. He rolls over, taking Frederick with him, so that their places are reversed. He looks down and trails his thumb over the scar on the doctor's cheek. “I promise you, Doctor Frederick Chilton.” He kisses him, slowly, deeply.

 

Frederick mumbles his name helplessly. His fingers are pulling at Will's shirt, fumbling with his trousers. Their clothes come off easily, and Will finds himself back underneath Frederick.

 

Will feels a vast surge of happiness as he feels Frederick's warm, smooth skin against his own. It is not yet at the stage where his touch is familiar, but it is comforting. Frederick trails kisses down his throat, his stubble prickling as he goes.

 

When Frederick takes him into his mouth, he lets out a hiss of pleasure and his fingers tangle in the sheets. He groans and feels his hips buck involuntarily as Frederick slides his burning, wet mouth around him.

 

“Fred- fuck-” Will cries out.

 

He knows he can't hold back for very long and after a few moments he reluctantly pushes Frederick's face back, rolling him over and spitting unceremoniously into his hand before working his fingers inside the doctor.

 

Frederick whimpers as Will pulls the fingers out and replaces them with his length.

 

Will kisses him as he fucks him.

 

They lie together afterwards, sticky and sated, breathing in time with each other. Frederick toys with Will's hair gently.

 

“I love you,” Will tells him. “I won't leave you again. I promise.”

 

“Does that mean that there's an 'after' now?” Frederick asks.

 

Will nods. “There is. There definitely is.”

 

Frederick smiles. They don't speak for a while, and Will feels the still-unfamiliar sensation of acceptance and value. He kisses Frederick's jaw, tastes the sweat clinging to his beard and almost laughs at the strange direction his life has taken; for once, his life has taken a turn for the better.

 

There is a knock at the door. Will and Frederick bundle themselves into the dressing gowns provided by the hotel; they are slick with sweat, hair sticking up and cheeks flushed, and it is obvious what has happened between them. The room smells of sex.

 

Will blushes as he opens the door and finds himself facing Jack. The guards are still outside, and they manage to keep straight faces, but Jack takes in his former special agent and said agent's psychiatrist and rolls his eyes.

 

“So... you actually are...?” he asks, stepping in without being invited and shutting the door behind him.

 

“Yes,” Will says.

 

Jack clears his throat.

 

“What do you want?” Will asks, ignoring him.

 

“We've found Hannibal Lecter,” Jack says.

 

Victory and relief flood Will. He exhales slowly. “That's very good news,” he replies, glancing at Frederick and seeing his expression mirrored on the doctor's face.

 

“Unfortunately, it's not as simple as we'd like,” Jack says slowly.

 

“No. Of course not.”

 

“Alix Dupont told you about Matthew Brown?” Jack has the decency to look a touch ashamed of himself as he utters these words. “He has taken Hannibal hostage.”

 

“Great,” Will says dispassionately. “Let him kill Hannibal, then pick him up.” The burning desire to kill Hannibal is still within Will, but this is an easier solution.

 

Truthfully, he doesn't want to see disappointment in Hannibal's eyes again.

 

“I'd be tempted to do that. But he has Alix Dupont, too.”

 

Will is suddenly angry at Jack, and he knows he has no right to be. He should have stopped Hannibal long before now, long before Hannibal killed Abigail and crippled Alana. Jack has merely reacted to Hannibal.

 

“He wants me.” Will closes his eyes. “You've come to get me because he's willing to swap Alix Dupont for me.”

 

“You can deal with him, Will. You can deal with both of them.”

 

Will's fingers close around his ruined abdomen instinctively.

 

“You can't ask him to do this,” Frederick says, speaking for the first time since Jack arrived.

 

Will looks at him. “I have to,” he says.

 

Frederick's eyes flicker over to Jack, then back to Will. “You said you wouldn't leave me.”

 

“I have to,” Will repeats. “I'm coming back. I promise.”


	19. Hostage

Will showers alone, aware of voices in the room outside. He is nervous, his heart racing in his chest, and he realises it is because he has never before been so concerned with coming back alive. As the water trails down his skin, he pictures a future he couldn't have imagined a week ago.

 

He is towelling himself, his mind far away, when Frederick pops his head around the door. The psychiatrist blushes endearingly at the sight of Will dripping.

 

“How do you feel?” he asks Will in a gentle voice that wobbles slightly.

 

Will reaches out for him and gently tugs him into the bathroom, reaching over his shoulder to shut the door. He wraps his arms around him, burying his face into the dressing gown that Frederick is still wrapped in.

 

“I'm afraid,” he admits into the soft fabric. The words make him feel a little ashamed.

 

Frederick kisses his throat softly. “Understandable. I'm afraid too. You know they can't make you go.”

 

Will draws back slightly and looks down at Frederick. “I have to. Dupont has nothing to do with this mess. Matthew Brown is part of this game between Hannibal and I because I placed him there.”

 

Frederick heaves a deep sigh at the mention of his former employee.

 

“This is the end. I promise.” Will means these words. “After this, we can go home and live together with the dogs. Hell, we can get married if you want. I just want to be with you.”

 

Frederick blinks. His eyes are bright with tears. He kisses Will tenderly. “Come back to me,” he says.

 

Will dresses in clothes which Jack has provided; dark jeans and a smart black shirt. He doesn't ask why it is so important that he looks nice; he knows that Jack is thinking of Matthew's obsession with Will. He tries to tame his hair and steals a spray of Frederick's aftershave when the little doctor is talking to Jack.

 

He is tired of being bait, but at least he smells nice.

 

He sits in the back of a police car with Frederick, their fingers clenched in the middle of the seat. He tries to remain calm but he is aware of his breathing coming quickly. Frederick's hand is hot and sweaty.

 

There is a swarm of police activity outside the restaurant where Matthew Brown has his hostages. Their car crunches to a stop and Jack turns to give them a concerned glance.

 

It's starting to rain as they cross to an important looking man with sharp features and angry eyes. He talks to Jack in rapid French, shooting occasional annoyed glances at Will. Will finds that he can't focus on the conversation and watches Frederick instead; he has wandered off to talk to a sad-eyed older lady who, with her shock of red hair and firm features, can only be Dupont's mother. Frederick touches her arm as he talks to her in gentle French and Will feels a warm glow in his chest at the sight.

 

Will is given a pistol, which is tucked securely into a holster nobody bothers to hide, and a radio.

 

“I know you know the drill,” Jack says to him. “Getting Dupont out is your priority. Then get yourself out. We can take care of Hannibal and Brown.” He reaches out and places a hand on Will's shoulder. “You don't have to do anything to either of them.” He stares at Will.

 

“I know,” Will says. He covers Jack's fingers with his own. “I know.”

 

Frederick comes over to them and squeezes Will's hand. Jack nods and turns away, giving them a moment of privacy. They are surrounded by police. Will wants nothing more than to kiss Frederick full on the mouth, but he resists.

 

“I love you,” Frederick says, looking up at Will with an intensity that from any other person would make Will look away uncomfortably.

 

“I'm coming back,” Will says. He forces a smile. “You know that, right?”

 

“I know,” Frederick replies. He doesn't believe it.

 

Deciding that he doesn't care about the swarms of people around them, Will leans forward and kisses Frederick's cheek, wondering if he is tasting him for the final time. “Thank you,” he says.

 

It is hard to walk away from Frederick and head towards the entrance, but he does it. People talk to him as he passes, some in French, some in English, but he hears none of it. Eventually, he has walked by them all and is crossing the strange area between the police line and the restaurant where nobody is.

 

“Matthew!” he shouts. “Matthew, it's Will! I'm coming in!”

 

There is no movement in the windows and when Will reaches the door he finds it unlocked. He steps inside slowly. The air is cool and it smells of coffee. Some of the chairs have been knocked over and it is obvious that when Matthew took this place there was a panic as people tried to escape.

 

Will closes the door behind him and raises an eyebrow at Hannibal, who is sitting at a table, a glass of wine still before him. He inclines his head at Will.

 

“Where's Alix Dupont and Matthew Brown?” Will asks.

 

“He has her in the kitchen,” Hannibal replies. There is a cut beneath his eye and some of his own blood on his shirt, but he still gives a self-satisfied smile at his comment. “Not in the way I would prefer, unfortunately.”

 

Will ignores him for now, forcing himself to focus on the task he was sent in here to do and not his murderous desire towards Hannibal. He crosses to the kitchen.

 

Matthew Brown is leaning against a bench, all hard lines and good-humoured smiles. He is speaking to Alix Dupont, who is sitting on the bench with her hands cuffed in the front of her. She has a cut lip.

 

Matthew gives a delighted laugh when he sees Will and steps forward to wrap him in a hug. Will is surprised at the rush of affection he feels towards the younger man. He pats him on the back.

 

“Mister Graham,” Matthew says, his eyes bright, “Will. It's so good to see you.”

 

“Matthew, what are you doing?” Will asks. Matthew has a gun tucked into his belt.

 

“I got him for you, Mister Graham. Alix said he got away from you at that café I was working at.” Matthew looks to Dupont for confirmation of this and the woman nods. Matthew seems to rather like the young officer.

 

Will nods. He thinks of his primary purpose. “Matthew, you said you would let Dupont- Alix- go if I came.”

 

Dupont flashes him a grateful look.

 

“You're right,” Matthew says, nodding. He holds Dupont's elbow gently as she climbs to the floor.

 

They escort her to the door, past Hannibal, who says nothing. Dupont pauses and looks at them both. Her hands are still cuffed in front of her. She bites her lip.

 

“You could come with me,” she says to them both. “Turn yourself in, Matthew. It will make things better.”

 

He smiles at her. “I promised Mister Graham this, Alix. I'm sorry.”

 

She nods at him and gives Will a concerned look before heading out. Will and Matthew move back from the door and sit down at a table near Hannibal.

 

It is suddenly very quiet.

 

“I failed last time,” Matthew says. His eyes are burning into Will's. “I didn't get a chance to apologise.”

 

Will swallows. “There's no need to apologise, Matthew. Only you and one other person tried to help me then.” _Beverly._ “I owe you my gratitude.”

 

Matthew grins. Pure happiness glows from him.

 

“I am giving him to you,” he murmurs. “You can kill him. Finally.”

 

Will hesitates. This is everything he has wanted. He thinks back to first waking up in that hospital bed, Frederick Chilton fussing over him. Revenge was all he wanted. Killing Hannibal Lecter, gutting him, was all he had desired.

 

He thinks of Abigail. Their  _daughter_ , the girl they both swore to protect. He feels the absence of her like a hole in his chest. He thinks of her blood, scalding his fingers; he remembers her terrified, confused eyes blinking up at him.

 

Beverly Katz is another woman he swore to avenge. She helped him. He misses her no-nonsense approach, her sense of humour and her bright intelligence. He remembers the rage that boiled up inside of him when he saw her body.

 

Glancing over at Hannibal, Will feels strangely numb.

 

Hannibal looks strangely at peace, his elbows resting on the tables, his face calm. He has no way out of this situation and he knows it. He is trapped in a restaurant with two armed men who want him dead, and the building is surrounded by police who will lock him away for the rest of his life.

 

Either way is the end of Hannibal Lecter.

 

Will has always needed to kill Hannibal. His life before Hannibal seems distant, fuzzy, like a dream belonging to someone else. His life has been dominated by the man for so long.

 

His plan was to kill Hannibal and then kill himself. He saw himself as a man with nothing to live for.

 

That isn't how he feels now.

 

“Mister Graham?” prompts Matthew.

 

Will looks at him. Those keen eyes are still wide, manic with their need for acceptance.

 

“This is truly generous,” Will finally replies, reaching out and briefly covering Matthew's fingers with his own. He means the words. In his own way, Matthew Brown has done more for Will than anyone else. “I can't accept, though.”

 

Matthew's face falls. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

 

“It _was_ what I wanted.” Will makes eye contact with Hannibal. “I don't need to kill Hannibal Lecter. He is no longer that interesting to me.”

 

Hannibal offers him the ghost of a smile. There is hurt in his eyes, naked and unhidden from Will.

 

Matthew is confused. He needs Will's gratitude. He needs the validation of knowing he has pleased Will. He failed last time he tried to bring Hannibal down and it is vital to him that he allows Will to be rid of him this time.

 

Will thinks of a solution. “You can kill him,” he says.


End file.
